


Can't Trace Time

by AJHall



Category: Torchwood, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Dubious Ethics, Medical, Multi, Other, POV: Owen Harper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 27,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJHall/pseuds/AJHall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don't ask me to prove what I'd do to free the hostages. Just - don't.”</p><p>Owen Harper swore once he'd never set foot in a hospital in a staff capacity again. But an accident with an alien artefact puts him exactly where he doesn't want to be: behind the administrator's desk in a large medical facility. To make matters worse, it's somewhere called Barrayar, which seems to combine far future technology with the social attitudes of an ancient episode of Dr Kildare. And then he's called to a Situation on the roof, and meets someone who reminds him eeriely of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Bloody 'ell," Owen moaned. Blearily his mind began to draft another new entry for the Big Book of Things Owen Harper Has Learned Never to Do Again:

"Rule 187. Don't accept an unidentifiable cocktail from a man whose preferred tipple is water. Especially if he's got the access codes for the Controlled Alien Substances cupboard. And definitely not on the day you thought it would be a cute idea to persuade a pterodactyl to piss on his coat."

Gingerly he opened one eye. And then sat bolt upright, both eyes wide and staring around in sheer disbelief.

"Bloody HELL!" Owen exclaimed, forgetting the Estuary English he'd painstakingly acquired as protective camouflage once he'd arrived at medical school to discover that 92.5% of the population of the British Isles assumed he was gay as soon as he opened his mouth.

Not that he was prejudiced, particularly; five years at a top-flight English public school ("character-building" the prospectus stressed, which had struck Owen from the first as an odd euphemism for buggery, doing drugs and finding new ways to blow up Matron's cat) had been excellent training for life in general and Torchwood Three in particular. But why would anyone bother going to the trouble of getting into medical school if it wasn't for the nurses? Phalanxes of birds in tight uniforms simply gagging for a chance to fondle the stethoscope of anything - however embryonic - that might have a chance of turning into a real, live, doctor.

And as for missing out on all that luscious shaggage by being miscast at the outset as the Gay Best Friend of the entire student nurses' accommodation block - well, sod that for a game of toy soldiers.

Owen Harper, two days into medical school, had decided that his original RP speech patterns simply had to go. And - because he was persistent and really quite thorough at things he happened to care about - he hadn't let his adopted tone slip since.

Until today. And today was really quite special.

It wasn't as if Owen hadn't woken up before in places he couldn't recognise, with a mouth that felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage and an imp on time-and-a-half operating a pneumatic drill enthusiastically somewhere behind his left eyebrow.

It was just that the previous places in which he'd found himself hadn't included an executive swivel chair with armrest controls which looked as though they'd been designed to pilot the Enterprise, located behind a massive mahogany desk with hand-tooled leather top, in an office half the size of the pitch at White Hart Lane with picture windows extending from floor to ceiling on three of its four sides.

Oh yes, and with views through the windows of a snow-bound, sun-lit city which looked unnervingly like Budapest. Or St Petersburg. Or Prague.

Or rather; like any of the above might have looked if it had had a constant stream of sleekly alien-looking low-level aircraft buzzing around in all directions above its streets and what looked like space shuttles ascending and descending in plumes of white fire on a rapid and planned schedule from somewhere in its outer suburbs.

Looking on the bright side, at least this time there wasn't a naked female who looked like the bastard offspring of Jabba the Hut beaming down at him from an uncomfortably intimate angle.

But otherwise -

"You've fucking well landed yourself on another planet, mate," Owen said aloud. And then his stomach gave a horrid lurch, which had nothing to do with his hangover and everything to do with the fact that he had suddenly latched on to the fact that this was almost certainly nothing more nor less than the exact truth. Either another planet, or another time or an alternative universe. Or, quite possibly - Owen had had his notion of possibility broadened more than somewhat over the last few years - all three.

Although the effort of moving made him want to vomit he moved across the acres of deep expensive carpet to examine the shelves, the view from the windows, the scanty paperwork (printed on some kind of thin plastic) sitting in a tray on the desk and the assortment of pictures and diplomas on the walls. He sniffed the air coming in through the ventilation unit. Even had a go at the thing which had to be a computer, which was lurking on the corner of the desk. He got nowhere with it; you needed Tosh for a job like that.

The computer would only have been the icing on the cake, anyway. Whatever planet, whatever time, whatever universe he might be in, he was now absolutely certain where he was.

Owen swore softly under his breath.

He'd promised himself three years ago they'd never get him into another hospital; not on his feet, anyway. Whatever they offered him. Even if they gave him a free hand, an unlimited budget, and told him he could fucking well run the place.

_Fucking well run the place._

He sat down abruptly into the swivel chair, shaking from head to toe. Not the hangover, this time. He took in with a fresh understanding the acres of space, the natural light, the quality of the furnishing - even the sheer inadequacy of the filing cabinet.

He didn't just understand where he was, he understood _what_ he was.

And it bleeding terrified him.

There was a perfunctory knock at the door and, without time for him to respond, a man entered the office. Owen braced himself for explanations or, perhaps, flight, but the man simply dropped the stack of files he'd been carrying onto the desk and said,

"You must be the galactic! We hadn't expected you until the end of the week."

Owen bared his teeth in a smile which was intended to be two parts Weevil and eight parts Carter-Wright, the notoriously sadistic consultant in A &E under whose ungentle training he'd had his first house job. The newcomer blenched, visibly.

"Shouldn't that be 'sir' galactic?" Owen enquired. Without giving the other man time to respond he got to his feet and came round the desk, pressing into the other's personal space. "I got in a couple of days early, reckoned I'd come and give you all a nice surprise. I do hope you all like surprises."

His eye dropped to the man's name badge: ADMINISTRATOR VORSOISSON. His smile must have changed, upped the Carter-Wright percentage, because the man recoiled at least two feet back across the carpet.

Owen, frankly, counted that a result.

So. Vorsoisson was a bureaucrat. With the benefit of eight years in the NHS followed by three in Torchwood Owen still couldn't think of a homicidal alien he'd met that was worse than the vast bulk of hospital administrators he'd encountered in his time. Aliens ripped your head off or shagged you into a small heap of steaming dust according to type and temperament. By contrast, healthcare bureaucrats worked out on pocket calculators whether they could afford to let you save someone's life and then, regretfully, told you that it couldn't be accommodated within current budget constraints.

Somewhere deep in his much-tried brain a flicker of interest sparked.

_Unless the team do something clever in the meantime you've got several days running this hospital till the real man shows up._

_That is: running this hospital as the smarmy alien git-faced bastard boss from Hell. And just think of the hot-and-cold running nurses._

_Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Talk about the opportunity of a lifetime._

He extended his hand to shake, let his smile drop into something friendlier, less combative.

"Owen Harper. Look - Vorsoisson, is it? - find me some painkillers, would you? I'm not the best traveller in the -" he stumbled, but caught himself in time. "Galaxy. I'm still feeling the effects."

Vorsoisson nodded - so they hadn't eliminated jet-lag in this universe, then - and started fumbling in drawers. The office, as Owen had suspected, was excellently equipped. So that was the water-cooler; one would never have guessed it. The painkillers were red pills, smaller than saccharine tablets. He'd have to take a chance that the human metabolism hadn't altered too much between home and - wherever he'd fetched up. The way he was feeling death didn't have too many terrors, that was for certain.

He tipped back his head and swallowed, chasing the pills with a gulp of water. The water had a flatly alien after-taste, subtly but profoundly wrong. Still, after the London water Owen had grown up on, anything that hadn't passed through a minimum of six human alimentary canals before it reached your glass was bound to taste a little odd. Cardiff's certainly did.

His senses suddenly sharpened by the abrupt relief of his hangover - God, if he could get these analgesics back to Earth and reverse-engineer them he'd be a billionaire the day they got FDA approval - he picked up, suddenly, on the grey pallor underlying his assistant's healthy tan, recollected the faint shake of his hand as he'd put the pills down on the edge of the desk.

_Heavy night for you too, was it, Administrator Vorsoisson?_

Falsely genial, Owen grinned. "Feeling under the weather, Vorsoisson? Be my guest." He gestured towards the pill packet.

Vorsoisson, who'd been in the act of chucking the water-cup into some sort of concealed waste-disposal chute, froze on the spot for a second, and then turned, very slowly, to face Owen full-on. There was an expression on his face which Owen had seen on human features less than a dozen times before.

_And all of the others had just been told it was terminal._

"I'm fine." That was said in the sort of tone which brooked no argument. Given that Vorsoisson was half a head taller than him and obviously worked out Owen wasn't planning to start one.

Not when there were so many more satisfactory possibilities.

"Right. Good. Great." He smiled sweetly. "Tell the medical staff I'm looking forward to meeting them in a couple of hours. When we've been introduced you can take me on a tour of the facility. I'm a great believer in starting as we mean to go on."

Vorsoisson nodded, the relief that Owen wasn't planning to pursue the question of his health plain on his face. He turned towards the computer thing on the end of the desk, and tapped in an access code. The wavering figure of a man, two feet high and insubstantial as smoke, formed above the desk.

"Ah, Williams, is it? Book me the main Board-room for two-fifteen. Tell the whole medical staff our new Director expects to see them there if they aren't in theatre. If they are, see if they can't postpone it."

He paused; the shadowy figure over the plate looked as though he was about to say something.

"Get going, Williams," Vorsoisson said harshly. "Don't keep our new Director waiting."

The shadow man's expression compressed itself into a vision of exquisitely miniaturised loathing.

"On the job, Administrator."

He blinked out. Owen leant back in the swivel chair and yawned luxuriously. "I've not had the induction course for that thing. Tap me up a float on expenses, would you Vorsoisson? I'm taking you out for lunch. You can tell me about the city - about the planet. About the facility. After all - we've got a couple of hours to kill, and I might as well make good use of them."


	2. Chapter 2

Owen's first thought on entering the Board-room was that he'd inadvertently walked into an episode of Doctor Kildare. Certainly no medical environment he'd experienced outside of a 1960s TV show had ever been so unnervingly white. And so unnervingly male. There was just one woman in the room, barely more than a kid, who was plainly just off night shift. She sat at the far end of the table, trying to suppress yawns, effacing herself when the others directed pointed looks at her and then towards the coffee trolley.

Her long, honey-coloured hair hung over her barely-made-up face and she made no effort to push it back. She hunched her shoulders under her tight ward-whites and leant forwards as though she welcomed the camouflage. Petrova Comienski, according to the name plaque in front of her.

Owen appraised her in silence. She was fit, all right, but he knew the type. Wake you up at three a.m. in order to bend your ear about the oppression inherent in the system. And he'd bet five - marks, was it, they used round here? - that her bikini line had never seen a wax in its life. Not, in short, worth the hassle.

Pretty name, though.

He lounged back in his chair and linked the fingers of his hands behind the back of his neck.

"Administrator Vorsoisson, can you make sure everyone's got coffee who wants it? Me - I take it black. One sweetener."

Vorsoisson's look of outrage at being demoted to tea-boy couldn't have been more profound if Owen had just invited him to bend and spread 'em. Which, Owen guessed, was a management style for which the planet Barrayar was not yet prepared.

He paused until coffee had been doled out all around. He took a sip. It was truly disgusting; for the first time since he'd arrived here he felt, suddenly, homesick.

_That's not going to do any good. If you haven't a clue how you got here, fat chance of you working out how to get home again. You've got to hope Dad's Scoobies figure it out before anything disastrous happens._

_Thinking about the odds against that happening would just get you nowhere. Onwards and upwards. Carpe diem. And all that sort of crap._

"Well," he drawled, "the name's Harper. Owen Harper."

He paused, but there was no flicker of recognition from his audience. Either a very long way into the future or the PC brigade had finally won out, then. He grinned. "But my name doesn't matter. I'm expecting that you'll all know far more about me than you might want by the time we've had a day or two together."

There was a brief pause while that sunk in, followed by a quick rumble of laughter. Taking advantage of the mood he leant abruptly forward.

"It's all you I need to know about. You, for example."

He pointed at a grey-haired man, the one he'd pegged from the moment he'd entered in the room as the oldest there. Not the most senior, necessarily, but all the more reason to get him on side. Christophe Vaumont, according to his name plaque.

"Vaumont. Tell me all about the Valentin Henri Memorial Hospital." He caught a slight hesitancy in the man's expression, a dangerous hint of _How come he doesn't know already? He crossed the Galaxy to be here._

In an expansive gesture Owen spread his hands across the polished hardwood of the Board-room table. "Oh, not the crap they feed you when they want to get you on the payroll. I know all about that. I fell for it, after all. And I suppose you lot did, too. Since you're all here."

That got an even bigger laugh, except from Vorsoisson, who looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon. Briefly it occurred to Owen that people in Vorsoisson's position were exactly the sort of suckers they got to write recruitment briefs for positions they'd never be capable of filling, at a salary and status which they probably had wet dreams over.

Vaumont ducked his head in wry acknowledgement. "Indeed. Well, as you'll be aware, our foundation statutes leave us with what might in theory might be seen as a somewhat tricky balance. While we are tasked with introducing, promoting and developing best practice galactic medicine we are also charged with providing comprehensive medical support to those who would otherwise have no expectation of adequate medical provision."

Owen leaned back again, half-closed his eyes and exhaled.

"Nah. Sounds perfect to me. Bring in all these shiny new alien techniques, experiment on the unwashed peasantry, and, if you don't kill too many of them, maybe you'll get to treat Lady Muck or her relatives before you die. Or they do."

He'd expected Petrova Whatsername to react to that, and she did. She sat bolt upright and shot him a look of pure naked contempt. He suppressed a twinge of pity. It was always the idealistic ones who washed up at 35, explaining to the BMA disciplinary committees odd discrepancies in their opiate prescribing patterns.

Vaumont's wry smile deepened. "Indeed. I'm sure you and our late Director would have had a great deal in common. Vorgeraint frequently used to complain that the pace of advance was glacially slow, and that if we weren't tied down by so many bureaucratic constraints -"

Vorsoisson uttered a small impatient noise, easily translated as _Get on with it, man_ and Vaumont left the sentence hanging. Owen pricked up his ears. So he'd stepped into dead man's shoes, had he? A nerve twitched somewhere inside him; if he'd been a fan of that sort of literature he might have said that his nostrils caught a faint whiff of the Reek of Wrongness™.

_What did the last one die of?_ had always struck Owen as one of the more prudent questions ever devised by the human brain, whether it came to taking temporary charge of a drop-in clinic in one of the parts of the East End that the gentrifiers would get to shortly after they finished less ambitious projects, such as the Gaza Strip, or consoling a nubile, recent and not conspicuously heartbroken widow (who'd actually turned out to be a Rigelian neo-mantis on her version of a Club 18-30 holiday, which just proved the point, really). He made a mental note to get Vorsoisson to give him computer access immediately after the meeting. The files on his predecessor were bound to be worth pulling.

Vaumont, thus nudged, gave a short and concise description of the hospital, its history and current specialisms; Vorsoisson gave a long and rambling version of the same, contradicting most of what Vaumont had said. The others around the table chipped in, describing for his benefit various practice areas which he didn't understand and which he promptly forgot all about once the next speaker started.

Pretty much like every induction course he'd ever been on for every job he'd ever had, then.

Well, apart from Torchwood Three, naturally. There induction had consisted of fighting off the attentions of a pterodactyl which was allegedly just being friendly and having the boss pat his arse (ditto), before he'd been plunged straight into faking up a death certificate for a deceased rugby supporter who'd apparently ingested an alien life form masquerading as a burger from one of the vans outside the Millennium Stadium.

Owen, lost in thought, suddenly became aware that the room was silent and that everyone was looking at him. He got to his feet. "Well, everyone, I'm sure we've all got jobs to do. Let's be about it."

Released by his permission the assembled medics made an orderly stampede towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye Owen caught a swirl of sudden movement, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see Petrova, her face bright red, stalking out of the room while one of the younger doctors, who'd been sitting next to her, winked across the table at a colleague, a broad grin on his face.

Owen looked at the man for a few minutes, carefully memorising his features. He reminded Owen of someone. It took him a moment before he realised. Not just physically but in mannerisms and body language the other doctor could have been a younger version of himself.

Owen slid a casual glance at his name plaque. Justin Hasek. Clearly someone who would repay his keeping an eye on.

He made his voice casual as he turned to Vorsoisson. 

"Anyway, no time like the present. Can you set me up on the network?"


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later Owen leaned back in the swivel chair, closed down the vid-plate, and let out a low whistle. Once he'd been given access - keyed to a palm-print - he hadn't turned out to need Tosh after all. Computers might have had a couple of thousand years of development since the ones he was used to, but at least that meant it was a couple of millennia since anyone hired by Bill Gates had had a hand in their design. The operating system was a miracle of well ordered logic, and he was fairly certain that, if asked to do so, he could make it dance.

His own position, too, was rather gratifying. He still wasn't quite sure what a Barrayaran mark was worth - though lunch had, usefully, given him something of a baseline - but there seemed to be a hefty number of them standing to the credit of his account as Director. No doubt this was the sort of planet which required a significant bribe - oops, sorry, golden handshake - before any sane person would emigrate to it. Friends who'd taken up jobs in the Gulf had reported similar experiences.

And in the course of his tour of the facility (he'd concentrated on saying "um" and "ah" and "good grief " at intervals, and flattered himself that no-one could have spotted that he didn't know what half the equipment was for, and, if anything, cared rather less) he'd had another pleasant surprise.

A door off his office had opened out on a plush set of sleeping quarters, containing possibly the biggest double bed he'd ever seen and an en-suite bathroom which, judging by the gadgetry, had clearly been designed by an absolute fucking genius of a pervy plumber on an acid trip.

Vorsoisson had explained it was really intended only as emergency overnight accommodation in case the Director's duties kept him late at the hospital - and, of course, until Owen could find something a little larger and more permanent, it would be far better than a hotel room - but it was entirely obvious that Vorsoisson in common with everyone else in the hospital down to the office cat regarded this as "the Director's personal shag-pad."

And he was just as jealous of that particular perk as Owen could possibly desire.

So far, so good. But as for the integrated patient database, which he'd been studying for the last hour or so -

He gritted his teeth. That application had clearly been designed by an administrator. An insane administrator. With a detestation of patients - OK, so Owen didn't actually like the parasitic rodents himself, but still, there were limits - which bordered on the pathological. Why else route all treatment authorisations through whoever happened to hold Vorsoisson's role, so he could, presumably, argue about costs and necessities and whine about his need to justify them to some faceless suits who held the purse-strings, while the patients died on the operating table? Whatever became of clinical judgment? And why create a bottle-neck like that in the first place? It simply screamed out for some bright spark to work out a way to bypass the whole system and save hassle - like when they'd had the rash of bean-counters in the Royal London who'd imposed something very similar, and he'd shagged that red-headed bint in accounts so as to get hold of her sysad login -

Abruptly he swung himself to his feet and moved to the outer office. Vorsoisson had put his head around the door to say goodbye about half-an-hour ago so the place ought to be empty. It was. And - yes. He had guessed right. Owen slid into place behind his assistant's comconsole just as the door from the corridor opened.

He raised his eyebrows. "Ah, Hasek, isn't it? What can I do for you? And knocking would help in future, you know."

The young doctor froze in the doorway, and Owen began to enjoy himself.

"Come in or stay out there, just make your bleeding mind up," he advised.

Hasek took a couple of hesitant steps into the room. "I - that is, Tien - Tien Vorsoisson, you know - he just called - we're meeting up for a drink or two - and he thought he'd left something he needed on his desk and called me just as I was putting my coat on to see if I could get it for him -"

Owen gestured. "Be my guest."

It didn't qualify as the best excuse in the Galaxy. Vorsoisson's desk was swept and bare. Owen considered the merits of presenting him in the morning with a small plaque reading "Great Minds Have Messy Desks" but rejected it, on the basis that his previous implacable creed had been, "Bosses Who Believe In Inspirational Slogans Should Be Shot" and he didn't think he could be that much of a hypocrite; at least, not at short notice. Hasek, moving gingerly, rather as though either he had piles or he expected Owen to leap up and sink his teeth into his jugular, walked round to Owen's side of the room, glanced helplessly across the shining surface, ducked his head down to inspect the carpet, made a token fumble or so at the desk drawers, which were locked, and gave up.

"No. It doesn't - It looks like he must have been wrong. I - ah - I'll let him know. Thanks, anyway."

Owen let Hasek get almost to the door to the corridor before he coughed, purposefully. Hasek turned.

"Yes?"

"Tell - Tien - from me that we have security policies for a reason. It seems he left his - comconsole - logged onto the network. Into the entire patient records database. Anyone could have taken advantage of it."

He knew better than to watch Hasek's face. His eyes dropped to the hands resting casually by Hasek's side. Had that been a nervous twitch, or not? Impossible to tell. He pasted a friendly smile on his face.

"I'm not planning to make an issue of it - first day and all. Just let him know - tactfully, you know, as a mate, if that's all you are -" The tone of his voice made the innuendo perfectly plain, but Hasek had got features and body under perfect control now; he merely looked bored. Owen shrugged.

"Well, whatever, tell him that if I ever see it happening again, he'll find himself keeping his bollocks in a specimen jar. Got that?"

Hasek gulped. "I'll tell him. Sir."

"You do that. Anyway, run along. No point in wasting good drinking time, now, is there?"

The door clicked shut. Owen turned with renewed interest to his subordinate's comconsole. There were a number of lines of approach which he thought would certainly repay further study.

After a few minutes he found he was humming. He sought, briefly, for the words and called them up to mind after a short struggle. Odd. He thought he hated Dylan. Amazing what being a long way from home did to one's tastes.

_And sumthin's happening here, but you don't know what it is. Do you? Mistah Jones._


	4. Chapter 4

He had, eventually, turned in - the bed had turned out to be everything he'd hoped for, except shared - but found it hard to sleep. And then, just as he was drifting off, there came a noise from the stairs; the ones just behind the fire-exit in the far corner of his sleeping quarters. There was a particular quality about hospital noises. Owen had grown, over the years, into a connoisseur. This set sounded bad; not sirens-and-loud-bangs, everyone-fit-to-hold-a-clamp-into-A&E-now bad, but booted-feet-moving-in-haste, subdued-muttering bad, at least.

He dived into the bathroom for a towelling robe, flung it on over his underpants, and, after a moment's hesitation in case the exit was alarmed, slipped through the door and onto the bare cold concrete of the back stairs.

Just in time to collide with someone - a muscular, uniformed, armed someone - double-timing it up from the basement.

"Sir!" The security guard, thank God, had been properly briefed on who he was. And mercifully didn't appear to be the shoot first, ask questions later type.

"What the fuck's going on?" The strangulated note in his voice could pass, he hoped, for the effects of being semi-winded; hell, were steroids legal round here? That guard had muscles on his muscles, and if he'd ever had a neck it was back when Preston North End was a serious force in the League.

"Situation, sir. On the roof."

There were, in Owen's experience, only a strictly limited set of Situations which took place on hospital roofs. And security wouldn't be packing heavy duty heat just for a jumper. He sighed.

"Who's the hostage?"

The security guard blinked, once, but his training held. One answered one's superiors' questions even if - especially if - they seemed telepathically inspired.

"Doctor Comienski, sir. That mutie from Ward 20 musta jumped her -"

A voice, enhanced to a bellow by the acoustic properties of the stairwell, sounded from above their heads. "Karolides! Get your ass up here with those stun grenades or you're going to be scraping bits of that frill off the pavement for the next fortnight."

Much to Owen's fascination, the guard besides him essayed a demure cough in his superior's direction. "Er, sir. Shouldn't you - That is, I mean -"

A head suddenly appeared, leaning over a banister two or three flights up. "What, Karolides?"

The security guard gestured. "I've got the Director with me, sir."

"Oh." There was the brief sound of booted feet on concrete stairs. A second or so later another uniformed man was standing next to him, the badge on his uniform proclaiming him to be Head of Security. By contrast to Karolides' crude muscularity this one was sparely built, wiry. Grey-haired. And worried. Profoundly worried.

Owen extended a hand. "Harper."

The head of security nodded, curtly. "Kirov. Sorry you had to run into this on your first day, sir."

"Don't be stupid. First day, three months in, what's the odds? Do you think they'd have employed me if I'd been an amateur?" His lip curled. "Doctors and patients. Does it ever occur to you to wonder which of us is winning this particular war?"

Karolides looked at him wide-eyed, as though he might sprout an extra head any moment. Kirov rubbed his hand over nose and jaw in a profoundly weary gesture. "Wonder, yes. Been wondering for years. Not come up with any answers yet, though. You, sir?"

Owen shook his head. "No. Nothing. Anyway, I'm here. For what it's worth. So hadn't we better be doing something about this - Situation?"

Karolides made a sound rather like a squawk. From his perspective, anyway, the last thing he wanted was one of the hospital top-brass in the middle of a hostage stand-off. Kirov, by contrast, exhaled with profound relief.

"Waiting for you to ask, sir." He paused, his face in a wry grimace. "After all, if I let you go back to bed now, I'd have to wake you in half an hour or so. To fill in the forms and speak to the holovids, if nothing else. Belike."

They made it up the steps in record time, paused behind the thin service door which led onto the roof.

And from behind that door came a voice which Owen recognised instantly, which twisted every nerve in his body, which resonated straight to the pit of his stomach.

"You wanna know what I want? What my demands are?"

The voice was raw, shrill-edged with desperation, trembling on the edge of hysteria. But surely those tones - that accent - could belong only to one person.

There was a murmur - Dr Comienski saying something, no doubt, something soothing, something bland.

Something which betrayed how profoundly she had mistaken what she was dealing with.

The voice sounded again. "You tell me you can help me. Well, help me with this. I want my name back. I want my memories back. I want my life back. I want to know who I goddamn well am."

It was time and past time. Oddly, Owen's hand on the smooth metal bar of the service door was barely sweaty at all; remotely, part of his mind thought that was something he might, if he survived the next few seconds, legitimately be proud of.

He turned to Kirov. "Right. Once I'm through the door, throw the floodlights to the roof. I'll need all the light I can get. I need to be seen. Trust me; don't think of surprise. We're outmanoeuvred on that front before we even start."

Kirov paused, nodded, touched a brief hand to his shoulder, flitted somewhere in search of a switch. Owen braced his shoulders, pushed at the bar, and stepped out to confront Jack.


	5. Chapter 5

No-one had bothered to mention the blizzard. The icy puddles underfoot burned his bare soles like acid; the driving snow found its way through every gap in his bathrobe. The very air was so cold it tore at his lungs with every breath he took.

He lost the careful, prepared words he'd been planning and hurled his outrage into the swirling darkness ahead of him.

"Oh, this is so fucking typical! If you have to go in for these drama queen stunts at all, couldn't you dig up a bit more originality and frigging well do it somewhere other than on top of the tallest building you could find, you poncy git?"

There was a pause. And then, from not very far ahead of him at all, came that voice again; calmer now, something of irony detectable in it.

"Well. Whatever I might have expected, I'd not have bet on that."

Absent the muffling effects of the door - absent the distorting effects of panic or anger - the voice sounded different. Lighter in pitch. Less familiar. Almost - alien. A thread of doubt stirred in Owen's mind -

And in that second Kirov must have found the switch, because the whole of the rooftop was suddenly bathed in brilliant light.

Owen found himself looking straight across Dr Comienski's head into the startlingly blue eyes of a tall woman he'd never seen before in his life.

He lost it, completely.

"And just who the fuck are you?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"I thought I'd just explained that - thanks to your goons and their chemicals - I don't have the faintest idea?"

"Oh, really!" Petrova Comienski burst out. "Why won't you accept that's just a delusion?"

"What is?" Owen could feel his teeth beginning to chatter. Still, the patient must be feeling the cold worse than he was; she was only wearing a thin hospital gown, and her nipples stood out like Armalite piercing shells. Fetching as the effect was, highlighting a pair of tits for which the only applicable phrase was small but perfectly formed (and she was fully aware of his appreciating them; there was a mocking curve on her lips as she tracked the line of his glance) it had to be hurting like hell.

"When I was brought in here - when was it now?"

Comieski gritted her teeth. "Four days ago. You'd been attacked - beaten up - there was concussion. You have to realise that your amnesia is simply a result of your injuries, not deliberately induced by the hospital as part of some great sinister plot -"

At this moment a gust of wind swept across the roof-top. The tunic of the patient's hospital pyjamas billowed up - Comienski tried to wriggle free while she was distracted, failed, and fetched up pinned against the parapet.

"Try that again and you're going over," the patient said coldly. There was, however, something about her voice which, to Owen's experienced ear, lacked conviction. And she probably had worked out the flaw in the suggestion, even if Comienski, who looked terrified, plainly hadn't. Better enlighten her, then.

Owen made his voice sound bored. "Not such a bright idea, that, darlin'."

"And why not?"

"Because -" he paused meaningfully. "You do that, I'm out one junior doctor. But you're out one hostage. Difference between us being, I'll get applicants for my vacancy."

He made his voice sharp. "Dr Comienski! Get this patient indoors and down to the best-equipped consulting room we've got. I want a full medical examination, and I want it now."

Comienski goggled at him. "Wha-?"

"You tell me this patient was admitted four days ago, yes?"

Comienski nodded.

"Well," Owen said, "it seems we have a little problem, then. Because - as I'd have expected you'd have spotted if you hadn't been distracted at the time - she seems to have a most remarkable collection of bruises on her rib-cage - and, no doubt, elsewhere. Bruises, I'm prepared to bet, that are somewhere between six and twelve hours old. At the absolute maximum."

There was absolute stillness on the roof. Even the blizzard seemed to have stopped.

"And if there's one thing I have a particular objection to - you might almost call it an article of faith - it's patients coming into a hospital and leaving sicker than they came. Especially since that looks to be deliberate. So come on. Move it!"


	6. Chapter 6

He went ahead, just to make sure Kirov and Karolides didn't do anything unnecessarily excitable.

"Problem solved," he said as he came - blissfully - into the comparative warmth and shelter of the stairwell. "Just a patient with a few gripes about treatment issues. Bit of a non-standard way of raising them, but - well, whatever."

He shrugged.

Karolides stared at him in sheer disbelief. "But that was a violent assault on a member of hospital personnel! Coupled with threats of lethal force!"

Owen looked back at him. "That? Violent? Nah, mate. Obvious you can't have been on duty at Guy's the night Millwall went down 2:1 to Arsenal in the Cup. Now that was violence. Whereas this - this was just a little local excitement."

Behind him he could hear the door opening. He hoped Comienski and the patient had enough sense to be listening. He raised his voice a little.

"Of course, if Dr Comienski chose, technically she might have a civil case for assault - I suppose -"

Right on cue Petrova Comienski - bless her uptight arse - snorted. "Trust me, if I were going to bring proceedings against anyone for assault in this place, I wouldn't start with the patients."

Karolides sounded reproachful and, a little, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Miss. We did trawl through all the footage, truly - if there'd been anything we could have found, that looked definite, you can be sure you'd have had it -"

"Oh, forget it."

Kirov's face looked - oddly intense. And regretful. He nodded, dutifully, however, and led Karolides back to their recess in the basement.

Owen, shielding his interest, escorted the little party down the next flight of stairs, heading towards his own floor. There were consulting rooms across the main corridor from his office suite. Just as they approached, however, he had a second thought. He gestured at Comienski. "Be a good girl, and go and get me and our patient some real clothes, please. Sweat pants, fleeces, whatever. Just so long as it's warm, and comfortable, and fits."

Irritatingly, she gawped at him. He made an impatient gesture. "I only flew in this morning. And it looks like my luggage is still finding its way back from the arse-end of the Horsehead Nebula. And I'm cold. And no-one would call this robe a fashion accessory, sweetheart -"

"Oh, I've no actual complaints," the patient purred.

He turned and studied her in the harsh light of the stairwell for a long, thoughtful moment. It hadn't, then, been merely a quirk of accent and circumstances that had caused him to mistake that warm, flat alto for Jack's voice. The chiselled features, a little too determined for a woman; that soft, short, windswept mass of brown hair (slightly flecked with grey; that wasn't just the last unmelted residue of the blizzard outside, it seemed); those blue expressive eyes, netted - in this case - by fine laughter lines; and, most of all, that amused intensity, that determination to flirt with anything sentient, albeit on the very edge of the Abyss -

At least as far as appearances went if someone told Owen that his amnesia patient was Jack's big sister he'd have a hard time proving any different. Though of course, given that the boss's real age was something on which quite a lot of money was currently riding within Torchwood Three, she might equally well be a little sister - daughter - niece - grand-daughter - anything at all, assuming, say, a time machine, alien rejuvenation techniques, very good plastic surgery or a particularly complaisant portrait in some attic somewhere -

He shooed the doctor off down the stairs. Once Comienski had gone a quixotic impulse overtook him. He gestured at the back door to his quarters.

"Look - ah - there's a bathroom in there. Can't have you dying of pneumonia. You might want to take a hot shower. Warm up, you know. Even a bath, so long as you don't take forever about it."

The patient looked, momentarily, startled. Then she ducked her head in acknowledgement, and dived inside his quarters. After a second Owen followed after her. There was a line of light through his sleeping quarters from the part-open bathroom door. Steam, already, was starting to billow out through it. He coughed, and raised his voice.

"Just one thing -"

The patient put her head round the door, wearing the door-frame - Owen knew as surely as if he had X-ray vision that she was wearing nothing else - as a towel.

"Yes?"

He grinned. "Don't do anything that might shock the rubber duck."

The patient laughed, and dived back inside. As if by way of statement the bathroom door remained ajar. There was a prolonged, delicious interval filled only with gurgling and splashing sounds. And the odd gasp of sybaritic pleasure; tentative, shaky and on the very edge of hearing.

Owen lay back on his bed, and tried to make himself relax. And to convince himself that a few hundred parsecs and a couple of thousand years didn't change the ethical fundamentals about doctor/patient relations.

What he could remember of them.


	7. Chapter 7

"The _fuck_!"

Belatedly, Owen realised that his exclamation hardly constituted best clinical practice. Nevertheless, on the other hand, if you'd just realised exactly how the bloke in _The Crying Game_ must have felt -

Petrova Comienski turned her head from the - to be fair - extremely competent examination she was making of their patient. Competent, and, more to the point, thorough. Which was why the patient was now wearing just the top half of the track suit Petrova had dug out from somewhere. Which was also why it had just become apparent that the patient didn't just possess a complete meat-and-two-veg, but was by any reasonable standards quite impressively endowed.

Not that Owen was proposing to enter into any sort of comparison, obviously.

_Do not attack an enemy that has the high ground._

"Sir?" Dr Comienski enquired, with a trace of delicate malice. Belatedly it occurred to Owen that she, of course, had been dealing with their patient for several days. And she had still left him to leap athletically to conclusions while waiting for him to fall flat on his backside.

_For the love of God! How many millennia had it been since his own era? Surely, in all that time, junior doctors could have come up with something more sophisticated than springing a pre-op transsexual on their superiors without warning. Good grief, did that mean they still did the one with the glass eye, too?_

Owen retreated behind the comconsole and tapped in a code. "Dr Comienski," he jerked out through gritted teeth, "don't take this the wrong way. I know it's difficult for you being the only woman doctor on the staff. But does it ever occur to you that sometimes - just sometimes - your colleagues might hate you for being a smartarse, rather than just because you're a bird?"

The patient snorted with appreciative interest. Comienski looked coldly furious, declined to comment and turned once again to the job of attending to the patient's truly nasty collection of abrasions and contusions. Owen called up the patient's complete clinical record, determined that he wasn't going to be taken by surprise again if there was anything else Dr Comienski hadn't been entirely frank about.

The record unscrolled above the vid-plate in ghostly 3-D. He contemplated it for quite two minutes in complete silence. And then coughed, pointedly.

"Dr Comienski. I need a word with you once you've finished dressing those injuries. In my office. Start the system running a full analysis of those blood samples, and -"

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of a cup of tea round here, is there?"

Comienski digested the apparent _non sequitur_ for a second. Then shrugged.

"Why wouldn't there be? Actually I usually - that is, I believe the security team tend to have a brew on the go about now. I could always call on the com-link -"

"Tea." The patient sighed beatifically. "I was beginning to think no-one was planning to offer."


	8. Chapter 8

"I assumed, sir, that as a galactic and having read the medical literature you wouldn't need me to explain the concept of a Betan hermaphrodite to you."

Owen sighed. "Comienski - look, can I call you Petrova? Do yourself a favour. Never assume that anyone's read the medical literature. Reason being, there's a fuck of a lot of it and most of it's absolute bollocks written by complete tossers."

For the first time he detected a glint of humour in Dr Comienski's expression. Rather unexpectedly she kicked her shoes off and curled her feet under her on the deep leather sofa. "I know that. I just hadn't expected a senior administrator to admit it. Sir."

She took a deep swallow of her tea. Her grey eyes laughed at him over the rim of her cup. He found himself responding.

"Look - it's Owen. Can the "sir" business. So. Enlighten me. Why _Betan_ hermaphrodite? Experimental technology, is it?"

He summoned up the patient's medical records again and rotated the key images through three hundred and sixty degrees above the vid-plate, trying for Comienski's benefit to project clinical interest as opposed to mucky-minded fascination.

_Certainly doesn't look experimental to me. Mind-boggling, though. Who'd have thought there was even room down there for both lots of genitalia? But I'd bet that's a full production release. And, given our patient's personality, that any bugs have been ironed out in extensive field trials._

Petrova shook her head. "No - they must have been around for about two hundred and fifty years or so. About that, anyway. Just about the time Beta Colony developed the first really reliable uterine replicator."

_The - what? If that does what it says on the can then those are another lot of tech specs I'm taking back to Cardiff if I get half a chance. Bloody hell. Imagine what Posh Spice would be prepared to bid for one of those!_

Owen pasted an expression of intelligent interest on his face, and gestured for Petrova to continue. She did, rather as though she were reading an undergraduate paper to a university feminist society.

"Given the strong egalitarian thread in Betan society, naturally it occurred to some Betan geneticists that the true solution to discrimination on the grounds of gender was to re-engineer the human race on a fundamental biological level, so as to eliminate hidden, covert and unconscious gender biases from the outset."

Owen sat bolt upright. "Jesus wept! Someone let a committee of bleeding Guardian readers loose on the human genome?"

Which, it seemed from Petrova's further explanation, was about the size of it. "It didn't catch on," she said. "Apparently they're only a very small minority even on Beta, and they don't travel much. On account of - um."

She fell suddenly silent, no doubt contemplating the injuries their patient had had on arrival. And the collection which had mysteriously appeared subsequently.

_On account of the natural tendency of the human race to lash out at those it considers other. Especially if they feel sexually threatened by them._

There was something nagging him about the original injuries, though. Or at least, not the injuries in themselves - they were quite explicable if one assumed they'd been preceded by some local variant on "Is that you looking at me funny? Is it? Is it?" and he'd treated Jack for a more-or-less equivalent set on that memorably ghastly evening when his boss had attempted to expand the sexual horizons of a Barry pub landlord - but about the notes accompanying them.

"Petrova?" His voice was hesitant. "When - our patient - was on the roof, you told her - him -"

"Apparently the polite usage for hermaphrodites is "it", sir."

"I'd hate to hear the impolite usage. I was brought up proper, me. And I thought I told you to call me Owen. Anyway, when we were on the roof you told - it - that it had concussion when it was brought in."

"Yes. That's why the amnesia. It's in its notes."

"Ye-es. It's in the full records, all right. With lots of supporting detail. But take a look at these. These are the duty doctor's notes, the ones which were taken when it was first brought in. The head injury's barely mentioned. It's pretty clear that the duty doctor was a hell of a sight more worried about the state of the patient's kidneys and spleen."

_Owing to the fact that if you set out to give someone a really good kicking you tend to go for the body rather than the head. It doesn't show so much through his clothes, doesn't damage your toes as much and it makes a bigger target._

"Furthermore, reading between the lines it's fucking obvious the duty doctor thinks the patient's concealing its identity, not that it's forgotten it. He notes that it knew what day of the week it was, for example. Which isn't as easy a question as it sounds, on a strange planet. I'd not be able to answer it if you asked me now, for example."

"Perhaps it'd been here a bit longer than you -"

Petrova sounded interested, willing to be convinced. "There is one thing." A long elegant forefinger reached out as if to touch the display swirling above the vid-plate. "It was Bernières on duty that night. I can't see him prescribing this combination of stimulants if he thought there was any real likelihood of concussion. I might - I trained more recently than he did - but he's pretty conservative."

Owen exhaled. "Can you get hold of him and ask?"

Petrova looked, initially, surprised, and then enlightened. "That was his last day on duty. He's off skiing - will be for another week. And he's terrible about picking up comlink messages."

Owen's voice sounded grim, even in his own ears. "An ideal scenario, then."

_Remove the eye-witness; doctor the data._

Hell, he worked with some of the best liars and data artists in the business. He wasn't so bad at faking up plausible case histories himself.

There was just one minor detail. Whatever state the patient had been in when it arrived, there was no doubt about its amnesia now.

And he hadn't got that sequence quite complete, now, had he?

_Remove the eye-witness; doctor the data; dispose of the body._

Owen swore, violently. "Get the patient up here - now. It's not safe anywhere else in the hospital except right under my eye. And get me those blood analyses. I think - I just think - I know what we're looking for."


	9. Chapter 9

The molecule - or rather, the multi-coloured schematic representing the molecule - revolved impressively above the vid-plate while the three of them watched it. Their patient had a rather intense expression. Owen supposed that was reasonable enough; after all, a significant concentration of those molecules was floating around its blood at this very moment.

Owen felt too much attention to the vid-display was surplus to requirements; there had never been any real doubt in his mind about what the molecule would look like, once they isolated it.

"Now," Owen muttered to Petrova, "run me a search on that. You've got its structure. And, to save steps, try using the last brand-name I heard for it. Retcon."

It was not, given the processing power at her finger-tips, a particularly challenging task. A few minutes later she raised her head from the comconsole. "But - it was dropped from the _Pharmacopeia Galactica_ getting on for a century ago."

"Not just because of the ethical issues," their patient added, leaning in over the vid-plate. "Also as a result of the side-effects."

Owen waved an impatient hand. "What's a bit of violent paranoia among friends? Depending on who you work for, could be a career-enhancing strategy."

The patient's lips quirked. "If I carry on living round here it could be a downright lifesaver. Only question: would I be able to tell if it was the side-effects? Anyway. At least there's one bit of good news. There is an antidote."

Owen leaned back in the swivel chair, locking his hands behind the back of his neck. "Of course there's an antidote. Otherwise no-one would dare use it in an intelligence war. Mutually assured oblivion."

"There was an antidote," Petrova corrected. "If the drug itself hasn't been legally manufactured for decades -"

"We've got the molecular structure," Owen said. "Drug and antidote. And if I wasn't sleep-walking through that bit of the grand tour, you've got a lab downstairs which can synthesise pretty well anything you like on three seconds notice."

"But those drugs haven't been authorised for prescription on Barrayar!"

"Like I care," the patient said. "Not if I get my memories back. I want to find the bastard who did this to me, and - ah - get violently paranoid. On his ass."

"And _now_ we have informed consent," Owen said, letting the chair rock forward abruptly. "So. Get onto the lab and tell them we need them to whip up a custom-designed molecule for us. In a buffer solution that doesn't make you want to vomit when you swallow it. We'll be waiting right here."

Petrova whirled, her eyes blazing. "Oh - you!" It was not immediately clear whether she meant singular or plural you - Owen had a sense that some of her intended auditors weren't even in the building.

Owen folded his arms and looked at her. "Yes, darlin'?"

"The rules about pharmaceutical validation and approval are there for a reason. You can't just go round walking straight through them, just because some desperate patient asks you to."

The patient was across the room before either of them saw it start the movement. It had its hands either side of Petrova's face, forcing her to look straight into its eyes. She flinched, slightly, whether because recent memories of her ordeal on the roof were still too fresh or simply because she was squicked on some sub-conscious level by their patient's touch. Abruptly Owen recalled Karolides' throwaway comment earlier, found a context to put it in.

_That mutie from Ward 20 musta jumped her._

Mutie. Mutant. Isolated in otherness, drowning in loneliness. Disqualified at the starting post from the human race. He found himself unexpectedly shaken by the pity of it all. Had it been within reach he might have put his arm round the patient.

The patient's voice, rawly passionate, chimed with his thoughts.

"Make that begs." It gestured, the sweep of its arm taking in not just the room but the city, glittering in the dark night, and by extension the whole planet and the galaxy of which it formed an infinitesimal part; smaller, in proportion, than one of those molecules whirling through the patient's blood.

"Somewhere - out there - people are wondering why I abandoned them without word. Lovers, children, pets. Friends. Colleagues. Enemies. When I came into this hospital someone took all of those people hostage."

Its voice dropped so they almost had to strain to hear.

"Don't ask me to prove what I'd do to free the hostages. Just - _don't_."

Abruptly it dropped its hold on Petrova and stalked across the room to a chair. Petrova dropped back onto the sofa where she sat, head in hands, hunched in silent misery.

Owen cleared his throat. "It's my call here. Look; we've had one illegal drug used already. And - I won't lie."

_Well, much._

"It's one I've seen used before. Whether it's strictly legal or not - it's too useful operationally ever to die out, I think. But once someone realises it's been used on them - that's when the real problems start. You can call them side-effects, or you can call them an iatrogenic psychological condition. Me, I call them bad news. And I've seen them. And they aren't pretty. So - I vote for the antidote."

He could see Petrova raising her head, shaping up to continue the argument.

Owen framed his mouth into the winning, ingenuous smile that had paid dividends so often in the past.

"Trust me," he said. "I'm - from a very long way away from here."


	10. Chapter 10

It was eerie to watch the effects as the antidote flushed the lingering traces of retcon from the patient's system; to see personality and character flow into and define that vivid face. Owen had thought it more alive than the average person even before; now the rheostat which had dimmed its personality had been disconnected and the full power beamed out, unimpeded.

It sat up on the bed, swung its legs rather shakily to the ground, and ran the heel of its hand over its face, as though trying to wipe away the last lingering traces of confusion, fear and degradation. "Thank you. That was - well, if you've never pulled anyone out of hell before, count that a first. I begin to see why Miles -" It stopped itself, abruptly.

The voice, too, had changed; become more clipped and authoritative. And - Owen thanked God Petrova Comienski didn't have access to that infernal mind-reading pendant as he formulated the thought - it came over as subtly but profoundly more masculine as a result.

_So if you take the damsel out of the distress, does she stop being a damsel altogether?_

It surveyed them both for a moment, as if trying to reach a decision. "Anyway, you gave me back my name. I guess that means you're entitled to know it. Bel Thorne. Late commander of the fast cruiser _Ariel_ , Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. Currently a herm of leisure. At your service."

It bowed, ironically.

The fast cruiser made sense - Owen briefly pictured that chiselled face and short brown hair above a Jack Hawkins-style Aran sweater and duffel coat, binoculars slung negligently round its neck, standing on the bridge of a warship butting into a short steep sea in the North Atlantic, U-boats, death and glory at every turn. And then sanity clicked in.

_Remember those aircraft outside the window? The shuttles blazing up from the suburbs? What's the betting that when someone round here talks about a "ship" it's a spaceship they've got in mind?_

He gulped.

_Forget the unofficial motto of Torchwood Three, did you? Mostly, it is rocket science._

Petrova Comienski held out a mug of tea to Thorne, and then looked suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry," she said, rather awkwardly. "I should have asked how you took it. I'd sort of got used to guessing -"

It accepted the mug and took a swallow. "Thanks. And you're not such a bad guesser, at that. Anyway. The story of my life. You wanted to hear it, yes?"

Owen nodded. "At least, since you landed on this god-forsaken planet. What brought you here, anyway?"

The herm's face twisted a little at that. "You might well ask. Optimism. Desperation. A man." Its face looked rueful. "Yes. That old chestnut. A twisty-minded little man who exudes more charisma than any given black hole could be expected to absorb in a hurry. Who, of course, turned out not to be here. That was where it started." It stared into the steam coming off the mug of tea as though trying to read the future in it. Perhaps it could. Reflectively Thorne said, "No, actually I was wrong about that. He was here. Too much here, in one sense. Just not - physically present. But I understood some things - that perhaps I'd been shutting my eyes to before. I should, obviously, have caught the first shuttle out once I realised. But -" It rested its chin on its hands and sighed deeply.

"I'd come a long way and it seemed like cowardice to go straight home again. So - I decided to play the good little galactic tourist for once. Did all the tours. Went round Vorhartung Castle. Do you know they've got the scalp of one of their Emperors in a glass case there?"

Petrova Comienski looked aggrieved. "But of course. Mad Emperor Yuri. We went round there on a school trip once. What's wrong with that?"

Thorne shot Owen something that was either an _Us galatics need to hang together_ or a _Birds! Who'd have 'em?_ look. Owen wasn't sure which version disconcerted him more profoundly.

He coughed. "Well, primitive people had all sorts of customs which - "

"Mad Emperor Yuri was dismembered," the herm said precisely, "sixty one years ago. By a selection of his nearest relatives. Including - the most informative panel beside the exhibit told me - one Aral Vorkosigan. Who appears to have been thirteen years old at the time." It dropped its head to its hands and the rest of its comments were lost in a mutter of which Owen could decode little apart from something which sounded like "Cannibals! The lot of them!"

Eventually Thorne looked up and said, "The ironic thing was, when I finally got beaten up I wasn't even trying anything. I hadn't even said anything. After Vorthartung Castle I seriously thought I was owed a drink. Well, I'd been passing as a woman - it seemed easiest - and I was just my bad luck I happened to walk into a bar where - " It paused, still - Owen guessed - too confuzzled to have processed the information correctly, even now.

"Well, apparently there are bars in this town where women aren't welcome. And not for the obvious reason. When I made that assumption things got even worse."

Petrova's eyebrows vanished into her hairline. "You went into a bar? In Vorbarr Sultana? As - I mean, um, posing as - a woman? On your own?"

Thorne - Bel - turned to face her. "You mean," it breathed, "that it wasn't just one bar on this planet where women on their own aren't welcome? It's all of them?"

Petrova stared back at it, in equal disbelief. "You mean there are bars on planets where they are?"

Owen coughed. "Socio-political comparisons, all very interesting. Feminist analysis and critique, got no problem with that either, darlin'. In your own time. Getting to the bottom of what's going on in this hospital, now, that's what I call critical path. 'Specially to me, at least while it's going to be my name on the charge sheets. So. Can the Bad Bar reviews, and start giving me something I can work with. Such as, for instance, the ID of whoever gave you the retcon." He gestured towards his comconsole. "While we were waiting for the antidote to kick in I ran the vid and audio records - and the live security feeds - through to my terminal. I won't guarantee the historicals are accurate - 'smatter of fact I've checked them over, and I'll guarantee they aren't, and I should know - God, there are some sloppy data-fakers in this universe - but I've pulled the records from when you were brought in, and I suggest you look them over."

It was about ten minutes later when Bel put a finger on the swirling images over the vid-plate. "Him."

In the circumstances it would have been rather a shock had it been anyone other than Hasek. Fortunately they were spared that inconvenience.

"He came into the ward," Bel explained. "When I'd been brought in - well, you have to understand that I was dipping in and out of consciousness. Hurt like hell, too. But the first thing I saw which I did see, if you understand, was that big portrait of the hospital's patron above the admissions desk. And that - well, put it this way, once I'd seen that I wasn't going to let on who I was. Being scooped up by the Family was the very last thing I thought I could put up with.

"So I was pretty noncommittal on the entry procedures, claimed I'd forgotten my name, that sort of thing. The doctor who admitted me - oldish guy, but fit with it: that sort of wiry type who always turn out to do 20 km desert yomps before breakfast - hadn't been buying it, I could tell, but I don't think he cared much, either. After all, all I needed was fast-stim for the bruising, synergine for the shock and a decent night's sleep. My medtech on the _Ariel_ would have had me fit for duty in an hour if she'd had to." Its lips curled in a slow, dangerous smile. "Doubt she could have managed the same for the other guys, though. And they were lucky. Might have been Sergeant Taura who'd walked into that bar instead of me.

"Anyway, Hasek - that his name? - came onto the ward and I knew he meant trouble. He walked like -" Bel paused, as though taking thought to pin the simile as aptly as it could. Its voice, when it spoke again, held a note of profound surprise, as though amazed that it had taken so long to make a connection which now seemed obvious. "He walked like Baron Ryoval."

Petrova and Owen exchanged glances of mutual bafflement. Bel shrugged. "Anyway, I heard him ask the nursing assistant, 'Where's the mutie amnesiac?' and she pointed in my direction. I saw the smile on his face and -" Bel wiped its hands surreptitiously down the sides of its sweat pants. "I didn't have to see the hypospray he was concealing in his palm to know what was coming."

It swallowed. "Old Tung used to say, that there were two ways soldiers tried to beat mind-wipes. Difference being, one way stands a prayer of working, and the other - doesn't."

Owen raised his eyebrows, inviting it to continue.

"What most people try to do is hang on to everything. That's the way that doesn't work. There's too much data and the effort's spread too thin. And you don't care equally about everything in your memory; if you're anything like me there'll be bits which you'd prefer to lose."

Bel drew a deep breath. "The better way - the only way, really - is to latch on to just one thing. Anything you like - a lover's face, a snatch of music - so long as it matters. Me, I concentrated like hell on the way he looked - how he was going to take my memory and how he was getting off on the thought of it. I thought - this may be the last thought I take down into Hell but I'll see you down there with me if it's the last thing I do.

It nodded its head, rather shakily. "The rest you know. Except, I suppose, the second set of bruises? I think, now, that was just some of the - more convalescent patients indulging in recreational therapy. Until now, I couldn't be sure whether or not they were connected. But I don't think Hasek planned on that happening at all. Whatever he had in mind for me, I think he had a very well-laid out script. What he failed to plan for was the random element."

Abruptly Owen made a connection. Hasek lurking strategically around the outer office awaiting Vorsoisson's departure, knowing that the administrator's terminal would have been left logged onto the network.

_Except that the smarmy boss from hell intervened, didn't he? Yet another random element forcing him off-script. So what's Hasek going to do next?_

"Thorne -?" Owen began. The herm raised its eyebrows and tried to look bored. Its eyes glittered like a hunting cat's, though.

"Don't tell me. I've seen expressions like that too often. You need me as a stalking goat."

He let his voice turn into a Sarf London drawl. "Goat? Well, whatever - floats your cruiser. But - yeah. That's about the size of it."

Bel rubbed its hands together and then, slowly and deliberately, cracked its knuckles; the gesture was oddly compelling. "Good. Because among the other useful memories you've retrieved for me I find I can now recall at least twenty-one ways of killing someone without using a weapon."

Petrova's mouth opened; Owen silenced her with a look.

"That's the spirit," he said blandly. "Though you might want to consider that we'll need to have live witnesses if you want to nail the really big cannibals. The ones who are yanking Hasek's chain. Whoever they are."

Bel spun to face him, the speed of its reflexes showing that its last comment had almost certainly not been an empty boast.

It extended an improbably delicate long-fingered hand, palm uppermost.

"Yours," it breathed, "to command."

Owen, caught off-balance, heard a faint mocking voice in his ears.

_Well? I don't see why I can't have chivalry as well as equality._

There was blood pounding in his ears and his body seemed no longer his own to control. He brushed his lips, feather-light, across the offered palm.

And looked up into a pair of intense blue eyes in which the laughter had abruptly died.

"Yours," he said, "to the gates of Hell." He paused. He could hear both their hearts beating in the stillness. He flicked out his tongue, moistening suddenly dry lips. "But - sorry, darlin' - 'fraid I can't guarantee you get a lift back."


	11. Chapter 11

Petrova Comienski stamped her foot. "This is ridiculous." 

"No." The herm looked up from its preparations. "This is an ordinary professional risk. In my profession, anyway. I'm a soldier of fortune, after all. Death is my business. I can't remember how many people I've killed. Does that give you a problem?"

"Give the kid a break." Owen slid onto the bench beside Bel. "She can't be that long out of medical school." He put his head on one side. "Me, now, I was in the NHS eight years. Trained at the Royal London - stint at Guy's - bit at the Mayday out near Purley - God, that was grim. Even Torchwood One wouldn't have tackled their Petri dishes. It's life, Jim, but not as they know it North of the river. And given that background - hell, hand on heart, I can't say how many _I've_ killed. God's honest truth. And does that give you a problem?"

Bel laughed. "So. You're the big man here. In that case - steal me a heavy stunner, would you? Something with attitude. I've gotten tired of being out-gunned and out-manoeuvred. And get me a hypospray of fast-penta as well as one of retcon, please. And the antagonist and allergy patches, too, for the fast-penta."

"Fast-penta?" Petrova sounded as if she was hyper-ventilating. "Every time I go to Vorsoisson even for basic analgesics I expect him to demand that I go down on my bended knees before he gives them to me. How the hell do you expect me to clear truth serums with him?"

Owen lifted his hand from the plate of the portable comconsole he'd been balancing on his lap. "Already done, sweetheart. They'll send them round within the hour. Shockingly careless with their passwords, admin staff, I've found."

He got to his feet and turned. "Happy about the door?"

Bel rose and laid its palm against the code-pad in the wall. The door to the secure patient quarters - the human race, Owen reflected, had not lost its ability to coin euphemisms in the last few millennia - hissed obediently open in response.

"I'll stand it."

Owen nodded. "I'll be monitoring the security vids. But - any problems, hit the screamer on your com-link." He raised his wrist. "I'm wearing the other half. No response in two seconds - well, the main hospital alarm system's two paces to the left of that door. Hit it and if no-one comes after that - "

"Kill them all. God will know her own." There was a frightening berserker calm about Dr Comienski once she had made her mind up to the battle. Briefly the old saying about necromancy sprang to Owen's mind.

_Let the demons you raise be no more than half the strength of the demons you know you can banish._

The herm's face was a study in calm.

"So," it said, "now we go to war."


	12. Chapter 12

"Vorsoisson!" Owen bellowed. There was, of course, a perfectly functioning intercom between the inner and outer offices, but where would be the fun in that?

A second or so later Tien put his head round the door. He hadn't made any effort to wipe the air of affronted dignity from his expression. Owen guessed his administrative assistant must have been off sick the day his school ran the introductory course on Winning Friends And Influencing People.

"Right," Owen said briskly. "I've got to go and see about my luggage. Those idiots at the shuttleport are still making feeble excuses. So - " He tapped the 3-D vid-cube he was holding. "Turns out the city end of their operation is only a couple of kilometres away. I'm planning to show up on their doorstep and see how effective their stone-walling gets when a punter's there in person. You're holding the fort while I'm out, Vorsoisson. Anything come up you can't handle - really big requisition for paper-clips, funny noise from the air-con units, mouse in the basement, you know the sort of thing - I've got my comlink. Just give me a call."

He was out of the office before Vorsoisson could respond. Once in the corridor he headed briskly down the stairs, as though making for the main exit. On reaching the second floor, however, he cast a quick look in both directions, checking the coast was clear. Reassured on that front he was outside Bel's room within the next two minutes.

As the door hissed open beneath his palm-print he found himself looking into the muzzle of a blunt, snub-nosed weapon.

"Sorry," Bel said with only the barest trace of sincerity. He put the stunner down. "Reflexes." It made a welcoming gesture towards the bench. "Do sit down. Have some tea - I don't think that pot's completely undrinkable yet. Be my guest: after all, my cell is your cell."

That comment suddenly hit right in the solar plexus. Owen felt suddenly clammy; his breathing harsh and difficult.

"You realise it probably will be if this all goes tits-up? Our only hard evidence is the blood tests showing retcon in your bloodstream. It'll be your word against Hasek's for how it got there. And any judge on this fucked-up crazy planet is going to be minded to discard your testimony in the first place. If we can't prove any of this -"

Bel patted him on the arm. "Relax. You're babbling." it said, and sighed. "And heaven knows I should be able to tell." It eyed him speculatively. "Of course, I've never found anything better than a back-rub for beating pre-combat nerves myself."

"You quite sure you don't know my boss?"

What Bel might have said next was anybody's guess. At that moment, though, the vid-cube Owen had been holding gave a brief, unmistakable 'ping!'

"Ah," the herm breathed. "The bleating of the kid attracts the tiger." It raised its comlink to its wrist and spoke into it. "Well?"

Comienski's voice sounded breathy, agitated. "Vorsoisson passed me on his way to the canteen five minutes ago. Justin's just headed up the stairs in the opposite direction now. Is Owen with you yet?"

Owen leant over Bel's wrist. "Just got here, darlin',"

"Right. Well, if you're wanting to log onto the network, any time now is good."

"Straight onto it."

With Owen's administrator privileges and Bel's detailed and arcane knowledge of buggering civilian electronics for military purposes, turning the vid-cube into an unofficial node of the hospital system hadn't been that difficult. It packed a formidable amount of processing power for something that had apparently been designed to be nothing more than a glorified A-Z of Vorbarr Sultana. And there was only one log-on id which it was supposed to be monitoring, which made the job even simpler.

They watched the display scroll past them for twenty minutes or so in silence. Then Owen put out his hand, touched a key, and froze it. He bent to his own comlink.

"Petrova?"

She took a second or so to answer. "Um?"

"Can you tell me what you're doing at the moment?"

She sounded rather irritated.

"What sort of call is this? What do you suppose I'm doing? Finishing off my paperwork, of course. It may have escaped your notice, but I was due off shift half an hour ago. And it hasn't exactly been what you might call a quiet night on the wards, has it? Even by - galactic - standards."

Owen and Bel exchanged a glance. Bel spoke first. "Um. Paperwork. Yes. I don't suppose you happened to have approved a request for a patient transfer to the De Rais Trauma Centre recently?"

"Where?" Comienski's next words were partly swallowed by an enormous yawn, they sounded like 'Nevvererdovit'. "When?"

Owen moved his finger down the frozen display above the vid-cube. "Recently enough for it to be counter-signed by - well, let's make that 'On behalf of', shall we? - our beloved Administrator Vorsoisson within the last five minutes."

That provoked a snort of epic proportions. "Ah. So anytime between yesterday and three weeks ago, that'll be. You'll have to give me a bit more to go on. Who's the patient?"

Bel bent to the wrist-com again. "Me."

There was a small choked silence. Before Petrova could respond Owen lifted his wrist to his mouth. "Comienski? Do this now. Copy full logs of every bit of admin you've done for the last four days. Date stamp them. Time stamp them. Copy protect them. Password protect them. Then copy the whole bleedin' shebang to stand-alone media and bring that up to me - you know where. And then - take yourself off shift. Make sure everyone - and you know who I mean by everyone - knows that Dr Petrova Comienski has left the building. Got that? Oh, and stop to say a loving farewell to your tea-drinking buddies in the security bunker on your way out. See if you can get one of them to walk you to your car."

Her voice sounded small and scared. "OK. I think I understand. Anything else?"

"Yes." Owen's voice sharpened. "Don't let yourself go to sleep. Have a bath, get changed into civvies - that sort of stuff. But I'm expecting you back here at 15:15. There'll be someone waiting at the foot of the service stairs to let you in."

"15:15? Why?"

"Because, it seems, the patient transfer - initiated by you - is due to take place at 15:30. And I thought you wouldn't want to miss the final act. So see you there, sweetheart. Or consider yourself off the team."

He cut the com-link. Bel raised an eyebrow at him. "Being a bit tough there, aren't you? She'll have been on duty for something like sixteen hours straight by that time."

"Well? She's a junior house doctor. They don't need sleep like the rest of us. It's a metabolic adjustment."

Bel looked across at him, a complex expression on its face.

"Do you have to act like a bastard, just to prove you're in charge here?"

"What?" He knew the aggrieved note in his voice must make him sound whiny, but hell, it really was a bit much. "This isn't me being a bastard. For me, this is me being a bleedin' pussycat."

Bel turned away to complete the preparations of the armoury on the bench, concealing its face from him as it did so. Owen realised, unexpectedly, he would have given his eye-teeth to know whether that was amusement or disgust registering on those mobile features. But when Bel turned back to face him its face was a non-committal blank.

"So. The interval. And at 15.15 - Act Two begins."


	13. Chapter 13

The problem with hospital beds, Owen had long since decided, was that they had been designed for the convenience of the ward staff rather than that of anyone else. That meant that they were too high for patients to get in and out of with ease. They were set up to be inclined at angles which may have been convenient for the nurses, but which gave patients back-aches and their visitors cricked necks. And - crucially in this instance - they had baremetal frames and an absence of hanging drapes and valances which not only made them easier to clean beneath (the official explanation) but which also rendered them functionally useless as concealment.

Nevertheless, the alternatives were limited. Bel and Owen considered every other option, but eventually were forced to concede defeat. If Owen was to be hidden anywhere in the room, under the bed it would have to be. At least - for paranoid security reasons - the room had no windows. They did what they could to focus the artificial light elsewhere. Bel draped the bedclothes artistically, as though it'd tossed them back in a paroxysm of existential anguish. Owen rolled himself under the bed and tried to think himself into the role of an extra-large fluff-ball with every fibre of his being.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Bel thrust a weapon into his hand. Involuntarily Owen let out a sound which, he suspected, sounded rather like "Ack!"

The herm sounded very patient. "Haven't you handled a stunner before?"

"Er - I - that is -" Blessedly, the shade of Carter-Wright came to his assistance again. He injected a note of frozen hauteur into his voice. "I'm a doctor. I've always had people to do security for me."

Bel knelt down, illuminating the area under the bed with something that looked remarkably like an angle-poise lamp. To be blunt, actually, an angle-poise lamp that was the spitting image of the one Owen had picked up at the Ferry Road IKEA only two weeks ago. Which was a truly worrying thought.

_Somewhere on this planet - millennia into the future, half-way across the galaxy - there are people still wondering why - if all they went in for was a Billy bookcase - they also ended up with a new laundry basket, 100 tea-lights, a pot of sprouting bamboo, two curvy mirrors and an unfeasibly large pack of frozen meat-balls._

_And why the till receipt came to over £300 quid. Again. Or whatever that adds up to in Barrayaran marks._

"Here," Bel said, catching his hands and spreading them across the cool, smooth, alien metal of the weapon. "This is the bit you press. I've set it to "light". If anything goes wrong, aim it at their ankles or whatever bits of their bodies you can see, and keep pressing." It sighed. "And if you do happen to get me or Dr Comienski - whenever she appears - in your field of fire, always remember that the stunner really is the weapon which lets you shoot first and ask questions after."

Owen nodded. There didn't seem a lot to say. The angle-poise was withdrawn and there was a faint creak from the springs above him as Bel swung up onto the bed and dimmed the overhead lights. It occurred to him that it couldn't be easy - if one had spent the last four days being beaten up, retconned, and then beaten up again - lying there to await whatever might be coming out of the dark to claim one. And Petrova had only been able to abstract one stunner from the cache of weapons taken from people reporting themselves into A &E, and that was the one Owen was holding. So. Lying in the dark, barehanded, one's demons all around.

Everything the books had told him about "bedside manner" suggested that it was time to put the patient at ease by introducing familiar uncontroversial conversational topics.

"So," he said brightly, "What's it like? Feeling it both ways when you come, that is?" He paused, momentarily. "If that's what you do feel, of course? The medical literature didn't seem interested in that bit."

There was a pause. Then a cough.

"Are you by any chance trying to discuss sex?"

"Yup." He shrugged, before realising how awesomely stupid that was in the circumstances. "I mean - what else is there to talk about? We've not been on this planet long enough to know who's fancied for the league title, and I've never been that into cars, so - "

There was an amused bubble of laughter from right above his head. "Ah. I see. Not prurience, just conversational bankruptcy. Well, what's it like not feeling it both ways? I'd feel short-changed, myself, but - who knows, perhaps there are compensations. So what's it feel like, Owen, being totally monosexual? I'm dying to hear all about it."

Rather regrettably, he found himself falling back on "Ack". A remarkably useful syllable, all things considered. And at that moment - perhaps fortunately - the door to the room hissed open.

"Well. Here we are again." Hasek's voice was jarring. One good thing; there was only one pair of boots standing in the shaft of light from the corridor. Owen wriggled round onto his belly and aimed the stunner with care.

"Yes." Bel's voice was cool and non-committal above his head. "What now?"

"We're moving you. To another facility. Somewhere they can give you some proper treatment for your amnesia."

A pause. And then - "But I don't know anything about the people there. Suppose I say no?"

There was a new note in the herm's voice: feminine, almost panicked. Sorely in need of the strong arms of a protective male.

Hasek came fully into the room; the door swung to behind him. "Oh, I think you need to trust my clinical judgement on what's best for you."

"Truly?" There was a creak of springs, a pair of bare legs blocked his line of sight. Bel was sitting on the edge of the bed, its feet on the floor. Owen suppressed an urge to swear, and dodged round the obstruction they presented to keep Hasek's boots in his stunner sights. "Suppose I don't?"

There was an obscenely seductive lilt in Hasek's voice. "Trust me. You should know better than to resist, surely."

"How could I?"

Hasek's boots took three strides closer to the bed. Bel - judging from the squeak of bed-springs - stood up in response.

"It's such a relief to meet someone without these planet-bound prejudices. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever -"

Hasek strode forwards. Bare feet and booted were almost on top of each other by now. Under the bed Owen ground his teeth and stroked the stunner butt. If Hasek made another inappropriate move he was dog-meat -

"You mutie bitch!"

There was a faint sharp hissing sound. And then a venomous whisper. "Ditch the sweet-talk, Dr Hasek. Tell me what you really think about me. Because you've just lost the option to do anything else. In case you were wondering, that was fast-penta in the hypo-spray. I decided to take your chances on the allergy testing. Oh: and one other thing. One false step and I break your arm. So. Sing."

There was a listening pause in the room, and then -

A shaft of light cut across the room as the door opened wide.

"Is everything all right?" Petrova Comienski said. "I'm sorry I'm a bit late but the traffic was just unbelievable. Has anyone showed up yet?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Tell me again. How it started."

Hasek's head lolled, his face caught in an inane grin; the workings of the truth drug, presumably. His voice sounded slurred.

"It was when Vorgeraint's grand-daughter got sick. Some sort of leukaemia. Most of them are easy enough to deal with; this one wasn't. Rare strain. Off-planet. I owed Vorgeraint. He'd trained me; covered up for me a couple of times. Told me over a beer once we were the same, him and me. Not the sort to be tied down by petty bureaucracy."

Owen gulped. "I'm sure he was right. What happened then?"

"When they shunted him into hospital administration he sought me out; asked me to join him. Told me to stick with him; he was going places and I'd be going there too. And we did. Up and up and up. Together."

Hasek moved a hand in a languid gesture which suggested clambering up a long ladder.

_But what about the snakes?_

"Tell us about the little girl." Petrova leaned forward into Hasek's line of vision, making her presence felt for the first time. "What treatment did you find for her?"

Hasek looked surprised, as if he'd not expected to find that topic of interest to his interrogators. "Vorgeraint swore there was a cure just round the corner, just held up in red tape. They needed so many volunteers to test the drug on. But there was said to be a tiny risk of long-term genetic damage. This big."

He held up his thumb and forefinger, perhaps a millimetre apart.

"But no Barrayaran is going to take the risk of scrambling all the DNA in his balls, just on the theoretical chance it might save some kid's life. After all, would you?"

Owen suppressed an instinctive urge to snarl _I'm asking the questions round here, moron!_ Bel, catching his eye, made a quick sshing gesture with its hand. Hasek continued to rattle on without their intervention; unprompted, poisonous, unstoppable.

"And the Council of Counts - the old fossils - weren't going to allow some drug to be used on Barrayar just because the whole of the Nexus had approved it. They needed local results. And I undertook to get them. It was easy, in the end. Everyone in the hospital had bypassed the system for years. They had to. This was just more of the same. I took my volunteers from the patients no-one cared about. Altered the records. And they forgot, afterwards, it had ever happened. I made sure of that. Patient confidentiality meant no-one dug into the identity of the test subjects. No-one was harmed. And we got the cure approved in time. Just."

He swallowed, tense even under the superficial calm bestowed by the drug.

"Vorgeriant's granddaughter was nearly blind and screaming in agony from the swelling in her lymph glands - the painkillers weren't having much effect by then - but we brought her back. It was the proudest moment of my medical career."

Owen felt a cold hand touch the back of his neck. _And would you have done anything else? In those circumstances?_

His voice was harsh. "And after that?"

Hasek wasn't looking at him; wasn't looking especially interested. "After that - Vorgeraint realised what the commercial possibilities might be. All the galactic drug companies wanted to get a foothold here. All of them were being held up by our antiquated rules. Now, you couldn't do that out of this hospital. Not forever. Not given our dear Patroness and her habit of surprise inspections. We had a near miss on one of those." His face, for a moment, looked like a cartoon - a mask of evil drawn by someone who regarded the world in general with a charitable and apathetic good humour.

Bel's face glowed with an expression of savage triumph. "So what did you think of then?" it enquired.

Hasek shrugged. "He realised he had to die. Vorgeraint. We did a lovely job on that. I took his 'long-standing heart weakness' back into fifteen years of archives. Faked up a couple of minor episodes. Meanwhile, there was a whole separate identity being built up for him to step straight into as soon as we decided it was time. We set up a company, all properly registered and everything, all right and tight over in Vorfolse's District. He - that is, his new identity - took on contracts with the galactic drug companies who wanted us to get them the Barrayaran clearances they needed. And we saved lives. Lots and lots of lives. And while we were getting the drug companies the results they wanted, do you think they cared how we did it? "

Owen watched Bel's hand steal out to caress the device lying on the bench besides it. It was taking every syllable of this down, storing it indelibly besides all the other evidence they'd recorded that morning over the course of Operation Stalking Goat. Sooner rather than later, that gesture promised, those companies were going to find themselves forced to care. Very, very deeply indeed.

"And me? What kind of laboratory rat did you think you were getting with me?" Bel had modulated its voice down into the lower registers again; Owen was starting to get the hang of the sheer scale of its flexibility both in voice and body language. It was forcibly suppressing the feminine in its nature: forcing Hasek to face up to the wrong he had tried to perpetrate - man to man.

Except - human nature didn't work that way. Hasek opened his eyes wide, an expression of sunny good humour suffusing his face.

"Oh, Vorgeraint would never have considered you as a suitable - test subject. He always told us - me - to avoid galactics like the plague. 'My dear boy,' he said once, 'Barrayaran files are comprehensive. If you once can establish that a citizen of the Imperium has fallen through that net, then indeed they are rightfully ours. Whereas a galactic may have links none of us can dream of. And there danger lies.' "

Hasek turned towards Bel. "But - well, even with that rule in mind - there are some opportunities which are just too good to resist."

His smile widened. "You weren't going to be a laboratory rat - sweetheart. There's an old Vor lord living in retirement deep in one of the hick districts. Let's say he was a - ah - friend of the late Crown Prince. He'd have been a great man, no doubt, if it hadn't been for the Escobar Intervention. Since then - he's been thrown back on his own resources. He's not changed, much, sitting there down on his estates in the country. Just turned more inwards, shall we say? Allowed his more specialised tastes free rein. When you appeared - well, you looked like the answer to a prayer."

Bel's face became taut and white. Owen turned, slowly, so he was looking Hasek straight in the eyes.

"And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" His voice sounded too thin in his ears. It lacked authority. He was, after all, a fraud here; a pretender. Bel and Petrova, turning to face him, must realise it too. Hasek, himself, even under the influence of the drug, shrugged and turned aside.

Momentarily Owen closed his eyes. In that welcome darkness a fugitive, long-buried memory awoke. Not to sight; to hearing. The sound of a voice completely suffused by contempt and raw fury. A voice tinged with the edge of a visceral betrayal. A voice of authority. A voice from the other side of the desk. A voice that left one shaking, naked, flayed.

A voice that made one realise that there were mistakes which were utterly and forever irrevocable.

He put all of that memory into his next words. "Dr Hasek: when you forged the transfer of this patient, what - precisely, in detail, and in your own inimitable way of expressing it, did you expect would be the result? When you delivered the patient to this - Vor lord? The old friend of the late Crown Prince? What did you expect?"

Hasek turned his head to face him. He was smiling.

"I expected the mutie pervert to die," he said. His smile became broader. "I expected it to die soon. And - ah - I expected it to die happy. Well. Satisfied, at least. More than satisfied."

A red mist rose before his eyes. Owen plunged forward, driving punch after punch into that hatefully familiar face. And then it wavered before him, and all went dark.


	15. Chapter 15

Bel was leaning over him when he woke. Owen couldn't feel his limbs properly; his body was encased in a kind of tingling numbness. And as for his head - oh God! There were showers of whirling sparks behind his eyes. The pounding drive of massive headache filled every scrap of his consciousness.

There was a pressure at the base of his neck and a gentle hissing sound, followed by the cold feeling of liquid evaporating off his skin.

Bel picked up his hand, turned it over, stroked two fingers lightly over the complex network of fine bones and veins in the wrist, feeling for the pulse point.

Snarky, automatic responses sprang to mind. _Yes, I've still got one. Any other questions?_ But it was too difficult to formulate them: his tongue felt the size of an aubergine and about as easy to manipulate. And in any event the light touch wandering across his skin was curiously soothing, more so when Bel turned to bathing and bandaging the knuckles of his right hand, which were, frankly, in an unholy mess. He'd seen much less competent jobs, too. Presumably mercenaries got good at first aid very fast.

A fugitive thought floated across his mind. _This isn't the way round it's supposed to be._ But even though the headache was easing and the fireworks behind his eyes were subsiding into damp squibs he felt wrung out, utterly. _And if there's someone volunteering to take charge, who am I to stop them?_

There were questions that needed answering, though.

"Wha-" On the second or third attempt he managed something which came out as "Wha' 'appened?"

"Relax. Just lie back. The synergine will cut in soon. I stunned you. Both of you. Since it seemed like the only way we were going to end up with a live witness after all."

Bel coughed, moving its hand to its lips as though trying to conceal a grin.

"A word of advice, Owen. If you're going to launch a murderous attack on someone who's still under fast penta, don't go in yelling, 'And were you creaming yourself at the thought, then? What mucky little fantasies were going through your mind when you came up with that one, eh?' Distressingly literal, fast penta subjects. Answer any question put to them. In alarming detail, unless you stop them. If I hadn't stunned him to save his life, I'd have had to stun him to save Dr Comienski's blushes." It put its head on one side. "How do you suppose she got through med-school?"

Owen ignored the question. With enormous effort he started to struggle to a sitting position.

"Where is she?" At least speech was getting easier, even if his limbs still refused to obey him. Whatever Bel had used on him had certainly had "attitude". Just like it said on the tin.

"Let me." Bel's arm was round his shoulders, supporting him; he caught a breath of some warm, complex, spicy scent while it arranged pillows behind his back, propping him up. Only when they'd been arranged to its satisfaction did it let him flop back.

"Comienski? She's taken Hasek off on a float pallet disguised as a corpse. She's going to dump him in the most remote part of the parking lot she can find, wait for security to pick him up. It's not such a good area, this; they'll no doubt figure some of the local criminals jumped him for his credit chits. He'll not remember any different."

Bel coughed. "I only hope she's got the self-restraint not to add a bit of additional damage on her own account. Judging from her expression, if it had been her holding the stunner I doubt she'd have shot as early as I did. Though I have to say even for me it went against the grain. In the circumstances."

Under the determined lightness of the herm's tone there was an unmistakable note of strain. Presumably even a career as a soldier of fortune didn't really prepare one for having been a random twist of galactic irony away from ending one's days as the sex-pet of a frothing sadist. That was the sort of thing that could land you with a really nasty case of PTSD. Someone ought to be doing something about it.

_Is there a doctor in the house?_

Bel shook its head determinedly, as if trying to disperse memories. "Well, like I was saying. She certainly seemed most impressed by your efforts to smash that sleazeball's face in." It hesitated for a moment. "Reasonable enough. I suppose. 'Specially given a few of the extra things she let slip about him while we were improving the crime scenario a bit. You know, stealing his wallet, tearing his clothes around a bit, smearing muck artistically on his face: that sort of thing."

The idea of Bel and Petrova Comienski having a cosy girly chat as they turned Hasek's unconscious body in a stage prop for a faked mugging was, if anything, rather more nauseating than the stunner hangover. Owen suppressed a groan. If Bel's wicked grin was anything to go by he might as well not have bothered.

"Way to impress a girl, that, Owen. If you were interested, as far as she's concerned I'd say your chances were never better."

"She's not my type," Owen snapped. Bel raised its eyebrows.

"You have types?"

The opening was, literally, irresistible. In his best Nick Charles voice Owen looked up from the bed into Bel's startlingly blue eyes and drawled, "Only one, darlin'. Lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."

There was dead silence for a second. Then, lightly, Bel leaned over the bed, caught his chin in one firm hand, and tipped his face up to its mouth. They were millimetres apart. Bel's warm cinnamon-scented breath breathed over him.

"You'd better," it purred, "be prepared to follow through on that."

"You think I'm not?"

He reached up, caught the back of Bel's neck to pull Bel's lips down against his. Stunner aftermath was a bitch, it seemed. Under his clumsy, over-forceful grasp Bel overbalanced, falling any which way on the bed. And then there was a frantic confusion of limbs and lips and aching want; breath coming in snatched gasps, thundering blood in his ears, and the feel of Bel uncompromisingly hard against him, which he should have anticipated but hadn't, and which felt hotter than anything had any right to do, as the herm straddled his thighs and used all its body weight to press him back into the bed; lips pressed bruisingly to lips, and he was in no shape to resist and no mind to, neither -

Owen broke out of the kiss, his voice ragged, rough and urgent.

"You got a point to prove, darlin'?" His hand slipped up inside Bel's tunic top to cup that perfectly formed right breast; his thumb brushed the erect nipple. "Didn't you hear me earlier? Not from round here. I'm prepared to follow this - anywhere you want to take it. Want a practical demonstration of how monosexual I am? Well, I'm happy to oblige. Got me?"

Remotely, on the edge of hearing, there was a short sharp gasp of horror. Bel rolled away, off the bed, giving Owen a clear field of view. The door to the room was open and Petrova Comienski, her eyes wide with shock, was standing in the entrance.


	16. Chapter 16

"I don't care," Petrova said doggedly. "Whether or not Bel was technically treating you rather than you treating it at the relevant time, it's the patient. And you're the doctor. And there are _rules_."

The herm's blue eyes sparkled with amusement and with something else. Owen thought that it might, improbably, be respect. "Sure there are rules. And there are definitions in the rules. And by those definitions I'm no longer a patient, so the rules don't apply. To either of us. Valid concern; invalid application. End of story."

Petrova whirled to face Bel. "Not a patient? Why? Are you claiming you've discharged yourself?"

The herm's lips quirked. "Well, no. Though given another few minutes as hot as that, and -"

It paused, its expression provocative. Petrova gave an exasperated "huff" of disapproval. Bel's face changed, became more serious. It stretched out a hand and rested it on her arm. "Look; it's now 17:10. There's a complete set of paperwork on file showing I stopped being the hospital's problem over an hour and a half ago."

Her mouth opened in protest, but Bel put its finger lightly on her lips before she could speak.

"Do everyone a favour. Let it go. You helped nail one cannibal today - for which you have my eternal gratitude. But he was just a small cannibal. There are whole tribes and chiefs for you to tackle next. You need to keep your powder dry for the battles that matter. And - trust me on this - Owen and I are big enough and ugly enough to look after ourselves."

She turned away; ungracious, muttering something uncomplimentary, but - Owen gathered from her body-language - apparently prepared to accept the argument. He was surprised at the degree of relief he felt about that.

He cleared his throat. "The only problem is - how do we make sure our cannibal stays nailed? It's clear he's owed favours all over the place, right to the heart of the system. Hell, if he was acting as -" no point in pussyfooting, and Bel was tough enough to stand it "- procurer for someone who was bezzy mates with the Royal Family, who knows who else he's got in his pocket? And this - Vorgeraint - too. Who can we trust?"

There was a pause. And then, with an indefinable air - part reluctance, part embarrassment, part something other - Bel said, "There's only one person we can go to. Countess Vorkosigan."

Something about the name jogged a fugitive memory. Something about Vorhartung Castle, and a scalp, and a glass case, and some teenager who'd participated in a mass family dismemberment -

"She any relation to - whatsisname - Aral Vorkosigan?"

"She's married to him." Bel looked straight across at him. "Oh yes. He's still alive. Though I gather it got a bit touch and go a few months back, according to Mark -" It broke off. "Anyway, she's the hospital patron."

Owen raised his eyebrows. "The one whose surprise inspections scared Vorgeraint into faking his death?"

Bel nodded.

Petrova's face was suddenly vivid with interest; Owen was surprised at the difference it made. She snapped her fingers. "Of course. The perfect person. Get the information to her, and -"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Bel said. "The Countess does happen to be the most powerful woman on the planet."

Owen suppressed an urge to comment that from what he'd seen of Barrayar that probably gave her approximately the authority of a Cardiff traffic-warden. Petrova snorted, so she was presumably thinking the same thing. Bel waved its hand. "No, in her case it's real power. From where she stands she only has to put a little pressure on the fulcrum and Barrayar moves." It bit its lips. "I can't just show up on her doorstep and say, 'Hi, I'm Bel. You don't know me, but I once had a fantasy that you might become my mother-in-law'."

Petrova gave an outraged little squeak. A brief flash of hurt showed in Bel's face before it became closed and non-committal once more. "It's complicated, OK."

Owen snorted. "Complicated? I'd call fantasising about acquiring in-laws bleeding sick. Can't you just stick to tarts doing weird things with pythons like everyone else?"

With a determined swing of her shoulders Petrova turned her back on them both and attacked the comconsole. "You wouldn't find her at home, anyway," she jerked out between gritted teeth. "She's hosting a charity ball in aid of the Hospital Trust at the Count's Residence in Hassadar this evening. Didn't that idiot Vorsoisson even give you your itinerary? Or your tickets? And I suppose he hasn't even booked a light-flyer for you, either."

Owen's jaw dropped. _But I haven't got a thing to wear_ was the first imbecile thought which crossed his mind, followed by _light-flyer? Light-flyer?_ Fortunately, before he was actually reduced to gibbering panic the salient part of Petrova's comment sank in.

"Tickets? You mean I'm bleeding well invited?"

Petrova nodded at the vid-plate, and hit a download command. "Invited? You're on show. Explaining galactic medicine to every Vor-bore in the District. Tapping them up for funds. Explaining what wonderful work we do here."

Bel's eyes had the glitter of a hunting cat. "Ah? Would that be the rounding up of the City's indigents and shipping them off to be used as lab rats, or the thriving sex-slave sideline?"

"Stop that." Owen was surprised to find how much authority he could get into his voice when he tried. "It's not Petrova's fault. Take it out on Vorgeriant and Hasek if you want to. I certainly shan't stop you." He looked down at the printout. "Hey. It says here: "And guest."

Petrova sniffed, pointedly. "I'm on duty."

Owen smiled. "Wasn't thinking of asking you, darlin'. Didn't think you were the dancing type. But if you fancied making yourself useful, you could call up whichever of your friends has any dress sense, and find out where a bloke can buy a bird a ballgown in this city."

Her mouth dropped open. "What? Who? I mean, you can't -"

Owen swung round to face Bel. "Unless, of course, you're washing your hair this evening?"


	17. Chapter 17

"Are you quite sure you can fly that thing?" Owen looked along the sleek, sinister, hellishly complicated length of the light-flyer, and resisted the temptation to say, "Good dog" to it. "After all, we're invited. No need to - ah, crash the party."

Bel's eyes had a wicked sparkle. It patted his arm. "Trust me. I'm a -"

Owen frowned, mock-serious. "Don't finish that sentence. Just - don't."

"No? Well don't fuss so. I've got galactically recognised qualifications for piloting at least 52 different types of non-jump vessels. Up to and including combat drop shuttles."

It cast a look down, and twisted its mouth in a half-amused grimace. "Not usually in cerulean satin evening gowns, admittedly. Did you blow all your credit on it?"

Owen half-closed one eye, the better to admire his recent purchase, and, more to the point, the elegantly athletic body beneath it. The plunging neckline, picked out with rows of tiny sapphires (synthetically produced, but in crystalline structure identical to the real thing), led the eye - where it would undoubtedly have been going anyway. Owen had no patience with girls who went off and got boob-jobs; he, personally, had no complaints about Bel's cleavage. No bra, either; another plus point, though possibly round here they just stitched anti-grav into the bodices. It worked, whatever. Below Bel's waist the gown, bias-cut, fell full to the floor, swirling out with every stride of the long rangy legs, every provocative twist of those ambiguous hips.

"Mostly it was Hasek's credit I blew. Seemed a shame to waste the credit chits, as you'd gone to the trouble of nicking them. Anyway, it was the only one in the shop which matched your eyes."

Eyes which, abruptly, caught his, with an expression which no-one could mistake. The fire which burned in them went straight to his cock. Blood pounded in his ears. And elsewhere.

_This is too much, too soon_. And then again: _I have been here before._

He felt like a spare part as Bel turned its head away. Sure hands were on the canopy, raising it; confident feet mounted the cockpit steps; practised routines of take-off were being muttered, sotto voce.

_Cloud blankets the Bristol Channel. Behind it, the low sun of early morning starts to strengthen. It changes from pearl to diamond and then to the embodiment of blazing destruction as the mist burns off. A Cessna engine purrs into life; a light plane starts to taxi down the runway, speeding up as it goes, travelling out of his life, out of this world, out of time. In his ear-piece he can hear the control tower awaken, start to realise the wrongness of what is happening below it. But neither he nor the control tower can prevent the inevitability of take-off._

"Jump in, Owen, for God's sake, and stop messing about!"

_History does not repeat itself._

Owen jumped. The light-flyer banked over the snow-enhanced heights of Vorbarra Sultana. The setting sun struck sparks off the gilding on the roof of a cluster of buildings far below. The light-flyer turned and arrowed away from the city, across the darkening plains.

They had, Owen guessed, been travelling for about ninety minutes; in silence, for the most part, companionable and a little weary. Too much had happened in the last two days. There were too many unknowns at the end of the journey. Here in this lighted capsule above the silent planet it was possible to pretend the world was sane, and made sense.

Bel let out a low whistle. It gestured towards the schematic on the dashboard.

"Twelve years of your life, and still you think it isn't actually real."

Owen had no idea what it was going on about. He bent to the dash. The Dendarii Gorge was splayed across the online map. Buggered if he knew what or where it was, but if it mattered to Bel -

"We can always be fashionably late," he breathed. "You want to go there, you do it." He paused. "You're in the driver's seat, after all."


	18. Chapter 18

"Oh. My. God."

Bel, its grin nothing more or less than demented, tipped the light-flyer through ninety degrees. Edge-on, they skimmed through the gap in the on-coming rocks with barely a metre to spare either side.

"Hang on! There's a waterfall coming up."

The gorge between the limestone cliffs was narrow and twisting; the cliff walls grew higher above them with every nanosecond that passed. It had been dusk when they started this game. Now, in the shadow of the towering rocks, it was fully dark. Bel was piloting on instinct and instruments, at a speed which Owen - after one shuddering glimpse at the dash - resolutely tried not to think about.

The thunder from the thousands of tonnes of water rushing over the edge of the precipice ahead was more than sound; it was a physical presence which invaded you, used your breast-bone as its very sounding board, made you realise you'd never understood what 'alive' meant before.

Made you realise just how very good 'alive' feels. Especially when compared to the alternatives.

And in that instant the restless air-currents which were churned up - once and ever - by the pounding waters caught their fragile craft, twisted it, made it the sport of gods and giants.

So then the fun (as Bel no doubt considered it) really started.

One could hardly describe the herm as being at the controls. Rather, it was the controls; the thinking part of a living thing, fused flesh and metal. The light-flyer danced on the winds of the world, partner to a million hovering deaths, embracing them, teasing them, handing them disdainfully off to finger ends in flawless rhythm.

Aware, all the time, of the dangers of coming in late on the beat.

Owen caught his breath at the incandescent beauty in Bel's face: utterly focussed, blazingly alive, riding the hurricane like an avenging seraph amid the blare of trumpets.

A thought popped into his head, full-grown and unbidden.

_Is that what it's like for those who find flying better even than sex?_

They burst from the gorge and Bel, for the first time in what felt like eternity, slowed the light-flyer's speed to a sedate 350 kph as the plain - dotted with the occasional lights of farmsteads and villages - spread out below them.

Owen swallowed. "Don't tell me," he said shakily. "You used to bulls-eye whomp rats in your T-16 at home, too?"

Bel turned, laughing. Its skirts had been tumbled every which way by the speed of their passing. Owen caught a glimpse of the cream silk and lace underwear which Bel and the saleswoman in that preposterously expensive dress-shop had been giggling over a few hours earlier.

_All girls together?_ He pictured that saleswoman - uptight, 50-something and inclined to patronise off-worlders, even those with extensive credit at their disposal - until disarmed by Bel's expert manipulation of the situation. Somehow Bel had managed to present itself as a combination of adoring new girl worshipping the ground which the school Games Captain walked upon, and as a desperate, neglected spinster needing to be given her best shot at happiness. Whatever the key was, it had opened up the whole shop to them. With all good will.

_Suppose you could see that enormous stiffy thrusting out those knickers now. I'd bet you'd laugh the other side of your face._

Bel caught his glance, followed it downwards. It smoothed its gown back into place, flipping an extra fold or so of the full skirts into its laps by way of camouflage. Owen cursed under his breath.

_Why is nothing ever simple?_

The herm's voice was calm. "I'm glad I insisted on the anti-nausea meds before we started. The shade of green you were showing back then really doesn't suit you."

It wasn't as if he didn't have practice at these sorts of games. He made his voice studiedly non-committal.

"I don't think they'd have worked if I'd not skipped lunch. So don't even think of a return match on the way home." He paused. "Assuming they feed us. And I bleedin' hope they do."

"Rather than simply throw us out into the snow?"

Bel's voice was unexpectedly bitter; the ease and uncomplicated pleasure of a moment ago already dissipating. Owen thought he saw animation leaching out of Bel's face and body with every kilometre they approached closer to Hassadar. It occurred to Owen that the last few minutes had been rather more than the opportunistic sneaking of an illicit thrill.

_Displacement activity, much?_

An unfamiliar sensation - perhaps protectiveness - swept him. Again, on the edge of hearing, that mocking voice - Diane's?- sounded.

_And why should protectiveness be so unfamiliar?_

He slipped his arm round Bel's shoulders and squeezed. It wasn't, perhaps, recommended practice to distract the driver in mid-air but Bel could probably fly this thing with half an eyelash anyway. The herm clearly thought so; it flicked a switch on the dash - presumably the light-flyer's equivalent of cruise control - and leaned into his grasp, its breath quickening just a trifle as it did so.

"Go on," Owen said, running the ball of his thumb lightly over Bel's cheek. "Confess. What is it you haven't been telling me about the Countess? Isn't she just the usual kind of blue-rinsed aristocratic old battleaxe who takes up hospitals for her charity work?"

Bel turned its head slightly more towards him.

"You really don't know a lot, do you?" Without waiting for a response it continued, "Though battle-axe is right. I always remember - they'd brought us up from Quartz for the day, on a school trip, so we could see the heroes of Escobar come home and get their medals. She was supposed to be the star of the whole show - after all, she'd slit the throat of the Barrayaran Fleet Admiral and turned their invasion into an ignominious retreat practically single-handed - and she was, though not in the way they'd intended."

Mischief lit in the herm's face at the memory. "Steady Freddie - I mean, the President - stood up to hand her the medal, and something went horribly wrong - it looked from where we were standing like she was having some sort of fit, though it actually turned out to be combat trauma - she'd been a POW, and the Barrayarans had earned a pretty unsavoury reputation for prisoner abuse."

It paused, looking slightly rueful. " _Plus ça change_. Anyway, she started flailing around, and next thing, she'd kicked him right in the balls. He went straight back off the podium into the front row of the crowd. You can imagine how we reacted. I was about thirteen at the time."

For want of alternatives Owen tried to picture the scene with Tony Blair and Camilla Parker-Bowles in the lead roles. He had to agree; he couldn't think of anything he'd have enjoyed seeing more at that sort of age. Well, that and that fit blonde presenter from Blue Peter stark naked, obviously.

And then a few things clicked, abruptly. "Wait a moment. She slit the throat of the Barrayaran Fleet Admiral? And it was your President - on, um, Beta Colony? - that was giving her a medal for it?"

The herm's eyes looked grimly triumphant. "Getting the picture, are you? Yes. She's from the old sand-box too. About two months later she defected to Barrayar and married Aral Vorkosigan. There couldn't have been a bigger row. People were screaming for her blood - of course, all Betans regard capital punishment as a barbaric impossibility, so they were carrying placards saying things like _Make her therapy perpetual_ rather than _Hang the bitch_ but you get the picture." Its lips twisted. "In theory we're conscientiously opposed to unregulated inter-planetary arms-dealing and sex tourism, too, but it's worth taking a look at our balance of payments from time to time."

"And you?" Owen prompted. "Were you out on the streets with placards too?"

Bel smiled, a little sadly. "Like I said, I was thirteen. The droopy romantic sort of thirteen, in case you're wondering. I couldn't imagine anything better than to sacrifice your planet and cross the galaxy for lur-rve." It squared its shoulders, twitched out of Owen's grip, and started to pay attention to the controls, just as a tinny voice started blaring out into the light-flyer's cockpit informing them that they were entering Hassadar Municipal air space, and would they kindly acknowledge and confirm approach and landing path.

"Of course," it added briskly, these formalities completed, "come a couple of years later I couldn't imagine anything better than to sacrifice my planet and cross the galaxy just for the sake of getting out of Quartz."

It turned to eye Owen narrowly. "But you'd better be aware before you meet her that she's going to be just as likely to peg you as a fraud and a scam artist as I did."

Owen let out a gasp of shock. The herm made an irritated, brushing-away sort of gesture.

"You might have been able to fool the hick locals with that "not from round here" stunt, but from where I've been standing over the last few hours it couldn't have been more obvious that you were in well out of your depth and treading water frantically to survive. Not that I was going to complain, of course, since you seemed inclined to throw me a life-line while you were in there. "

"Oh," Owen said. There didn't seem a lot else to say.

It was only when they had successful parked the light-flyer in a space crowded with other vehicles, in front of a large imposing building from which light and music streamed, towards which throngs of people in elaborate evening-wear were parading, that the herm added, "Notice I'm not asking you what you're up to. But this is just a friendly warning. If the Countess should ask, you tell her. Believe me; she doesn't take prisoners."

Owen took a deep breath. "Well," he said, taking Bel's arm and arranging the drapings of its gown punctiliously, "we'd better aim to go down fighting, hadn't we, darlin'?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Doctor Owen Harper, Director of the Valentin Henri Memorial Hospital, and Bel Thorne, milady."

The Countess - a tall, striking woman with greying, red-roan hair piled elaborately on top of her head with jewelled combs - turned to greet them at the servant's announcement. As she took them in, the expression in her grey eyes changed in an instant from amused, detached benevolence to sharp interest. Before she could say anything, Bel, its tone almost a verbal salute, said,

"Ma'am! There's a report we need to make to you. Now." It looked meaningfully round the crowded reception room. "Not here."

The Countess raised her eyebrows, and nodded. She touched a hand to a jewelled pin at her shoulder; com-link, Owen realised, not decoration. "Drou? Could you take over in the principal reception area, please?"

She rose, leading them through the throng, ushering them into a small sitting room off the main hall. As the door swung to behind them the sounds of the party outside were abruptly cut off.

_Good soundproofing._

She motioned to them to a low settee, took possession of the large arm-chair on the opposite side of the coffee-table like a judge settling into the judgment seat, then turned to Owen.

"You aren't," the Countess said, her tone superficially conversational but with an edge of naked steel, "the galactic we hired."

_Oh. Oops. She noticed, then._

"Ah - well - er - no, actually. I'm a sort of - ah - locum. The permanent guy's in transit. I believe."

He beamed up at her; if she was from Beta Colony what sort of planet was it, where all the women and the - well, whatevers - all seemed to be born so tall? She snorted, delicately, and turned to his companion. Bel, at least, could look her straight in the eye.

"Captain Thorne. I hadn't expected to see you here."

Bel's voice had a bitter note. "I hadn't expected you'd recognise me."

The Countess raised her eyebrows. "Did it not occur to you that I would have called for every single one of the vid-recordings? In the circumstances?"

There was the briefest of pauses, shorter than two human heartbeats.

"Oh, and that suits you a lot better than space-armour, you know," the Countess said, nodding towards Bel's gown.

Bel smiled, a trifle grimly.

"I think my space-armour days are behind me." It paused. "And it's not 'Captain' Thorne any more. Miles asked for my resignation after - after."

The Countess's voice was cool. "It being impracticable for him to ask for Mark's, I take it?" She added, conversationally, "My son really can be quite a prick at times, you know."

Owen, winded by the unexpectedness of the comment, scarcely dared to look at Bel. Bel's posture, however, had changed; it was open, relaxed; no longer looking as though flight or the use of lethal force were the only available options. "Which of them?"

The Countess's lips quirked, acknowledging the nuance, before her face became serious again. "I take it, then, that the news you mentioned isn't about -"

Bel broke in. "I didn't know Miles was off-planet until I landed here."

"I see." The Countess grimaced. "Don't deceive yourself things would have been simpler had you found him here. Trust me on that one. But then -?"

With hands that were not quite steady Bel pushed the data-packet across the coffee table to her. She put her hand over it, and rose.

"May I?" It nodded. There was a comconsole in the corner of the room. She played it through without comment, without either pausing or fast-forwarding, wrapped in a focussed bubble of concentration. Eventually, when she looked up, the expression in her face chilled Owen's blood.

"How many?"

Her voice was almost a whisper.

Owen gulped. "I - haven't pulled all the records yet. But - um - sixty or more. From the start. And there may be others patients who weren't part of the main scheme - like Bel - but who got diverted by Hasek and by others, possibly. You see - once the system was going, it could be made almost self-sustaining. Channelling all the data through a single admin point - well, it meant that once that point was compromised - and it had to be compromised, to make the system work at all, to be honest - then there were no checks and balances left."

"Dear God!" In the Countess's mouth that wasn't a blasphemy; simply a prayer for a peace which on current evidence was passing understanding. "Could any of them still be alive?"

Bel bit its lips. "Hopefully. But discovering that - would depend on access to planetary-wide datanets we simply can't tap into. The sort of access my - ah - former employer might be uniquely placed to exploit."

The Countess hesitated, her hand over the vid-plate, before shutting down the ugly show. "Yes," she breathed. "But - you see my dilemma. If this news becomes public those who oppose the introduction of galactic medicine will say it proves all they had ever feared. And the slime will forever be associated with Valentin Henri. Dead in our service and then dishonoured by proxy three decades later."

Bel looked steadily at her. "The dead, surely, know nothing or they know everything. Dr Henri will either understand or be eternally ignorant. But what of the living?"

She nodded, as though it had confirmed a thought which she had already half-formulated. "Yes. Those who have been disappeared - they trusted to us. In a sense we gave our name's word on their safety, as well as poor Henri's. You're right. This is ImpSec's pigeon." She gestured at the comconsole. "I'll forward that to Simon straight away."

She leaned forwards towards Bel. "And in the spirit of giving helpful advice, and as a fellow Betan - you might want to get yourself back home before the investigation really gets into its stride. Home - or wherever else you can think of, provided it's a long way from here and you've got friends there. You won't be needed for the trial - Illyan would have kittens at the very thought of putting you under fast-penta, given what's in your head - and whoever's behind this is self-evidently rich, well-connected and unscrupulous. And will, at some time tomorrow, also be severely pissed with you. Whereas, from ImpSec's point of view, if you aren't a witness, and are no longer on the payroll -"

Bel sighed. "I get it. My continued health starts competing for budget with higher-priority items. Like new coffee makers."

"And softer bog-roll." Owen, who knew a thing or two about public sector budgeting, thought it was time he made a contribution.

That earned him the Countess's attention in his own right. "The same goes for you, too. Whoever you are. And whoever you're working for. I'm going to suggest to Simon that his boys concentrate on the data analysis before they go into the hospital with all guns blazing and tip off our bad guys that there's something afoot. But by noon tomorrow you'd better both be on your way to the shuttleport."

Owen shrugged. "Fair enough. I suppose. And until then?"

The Countess got to her feet. The skirts of her elaborate dress swirled about her. There was something challenging about her expression as she opened the door and let the sounds of the party come through to them again.

"Until then - I rather think it's up to you."

They would have stood back to let her sweep out before them, but she shook her head, gesturing for them to leave. Waiting to bring down the wrath of God on Vorgeraint, Hasek and their shadowy collaborators, Owen realised. As Bel passed,she touched its arm, very briefly.

"Captain Thorne. In my case, I've found the title outlives the rank. I think you'll find that true for you, also. And - I'm sorry." Her eyes glinted with sudden mischief. "It's not just I'd have liked my grandchildren to have had a bit more Betan in them. I can't help thinking at times it might have improved my son, too."


	20. Chapter 20

God, whatever else was wrong about this planet you couldn't fault the wine. Neither in quality nor quantity. Nor, for that matter, the food. There was dancing, too, but it was formal and complicated, and neither he nor Bel knew the steps. It didn't matter: letting himself get pleasantly anaesthetised on the various drinks offered to him seemed, briefly, like some sort of solution.

It had worked once before, after all. For a time. It worked now.

Until the moment when it suddenly stopped working, and he found himself with a desperate need to be somewhere else - anywhere else - just somewhere he could punch his fist into the wall and mouth helpless obscenities back into the teeth of the mocking fates.

And that, too, only worked for a time. Just like before.

Eventually Bel tracked him down to an upper landing. He'd escaped, earlier, pleaded a desperate need for a slash. Bel wasn't going to follow him into the men's bogs, not dressed like that, not on Barrayar anyway and maybe he'd taken advantage, just a little, of that fact. He was leaning over the balcony, watching the glittering throng pass below. The only hint he got of Bel's presence was when a warm, lithe, muscular body pressed hard up against him from behind, and a soft breath touched the nape of his neck.

"So? What's your problem?"

_Where do you want me to begin?_

Sorting out what was wrong with the hospital had been an answer, of sorts. It had allowed him a chance to feel competent, useful, in charge.

It was only when the Countess had dismissed them that he had allowed a thought that had been lurking in his back-brain all along to crawl into his conscious mind.

_Go home? Somewhere I have friends? And are the two supposed to have something in common? And even if they did - how the fuck can those idiots back at the Hub ever find me again, if I'm not allowed to stay in the only place they might have tracked me to?_

_Oh, shit. I'll never see Cardiff again._

_And the funny thing is - a couple of days ago I thought I'd have kissed the arse of anyone who'd made that a promise._

He turned, allowing the balustrade of the elaborate balcony to support him as he looked up into Bel's eyes. The depths of the hurt in them made him, unexpectedly, choke. Whatever else he did here, he couldn't allow that misunderstanding to continue.

"This isn't about you. I brought this shit to Barrayar with me, sweetheart. Every last bit of it."

Bel scrutinised his face and then, after a pause, nodded, accepting. That gave him ease, even as he recognised that couldn't be the end of it. They had been through so much together over the last few hours. And they were too alike; each wandering through the universe in search of someone who didn't want to be found. At least; not found by either of them.

_You owe Bel better treatment than -_

 _Than what, precisely?_ It occurred to Owen, uneasily, that the only word which completed that sentence was "the others". And that thought, if pursued, would take him places he really didn't think he could face going. He spread his hands in a gesture intended to indicate finality. It occurred to him, in some remote part of his brain, that it might also indicate defeat.

"But there's no future in this either, you do know that? I'm not the type, and even if I were -"

Bel smiled enigmatically and bent its head towards his lips, closing his comment with a brief, cool, undemanding kiss. "Trust me," it breathed, "I'm not looking for the happy ever afters. Just appreciating the moments along the way. Can you settle for that?"

There were things he could have said, but Bel's lips were still too near; the need to lose himself in the moment too pressing. Speech was a fuck-all useless way of communicating, anyway.

Suddenly one hand was cupping Bel's cheek, pulling those lips greedily against his, his tongue forcing its way into Bel's unresisting mouth. His other hand roved unchecked across Bel's back, the smooth bare skin exposed by the low scooped back of the evening dress.

Bel's eyes were almost shut; its lips soft against his, its breathing shallow and fast, the complex spicy scent now overlain by something else; sweat, and urgency and need.

Owen let his other hand down inside those silk and lace knickers, caressing, for a second or so, the smooth curve of that perfectly muscled arse, before trailing his fingers with precise, tortuous slowness up along the line of Bel's spine, caressing each individual vertebra as he went, sadistically unhurried.

"Not - going too fast for you, am I, darlin'?"

Bel moaned and bit at his tongue and lips, twisting its hips to slide its body between Owen's thighs, raising one satin clad leg to rub it seductively across Owen's aroused cock. And then again. And again.

"Perhaps - you are being a little forward. Director."

Bel's voice was unsteady, breathy with desire.

His hand cupped Bel's right breast. Owen dropped his head to Bel's cleavage, flicked out his tongue and with infinite care traced a perfect circle around the aureole of Bel's nipple. Bel's body against his convulsed, uncontrollably.

"Oh, God, just do that again -"

A ragged exhalation. "Left to me, I'd have you right here on this floor -"

"So, what's stopping you? Just do it. Any way you want. Just now."

"Oh, God, yes -"

There were footsteps loud behind them. They disentangled just enough to allow one of those muscular young men he'd noticed lounging against the walls of the salon earlier, conspicuously not drinking, a little too well-muscled for their immaculate evening dress to fit quite properly - to squeeze past in his casual promenade along the landing. His cold eyes passed over them as if they had stealth cloaking.

Owen got the message. The Countess's security. Alert to stop anything from drunken brawls to over-exuberant galactics doing things in public which might frighten the horses.

His heart was thudding, every inch of him ached with lust. "Get your coat, sweetheart. You've pulled. Let's blow out of here."


	21. Chapter 21

The space between the birch-trees was narrow, a strip of uneven grass on the edge of the lapping dark waters of some sort of lake. They had been barely ten minutes out of Hassadar when Bel touched the light-flyer down on the water's edge, flicked a switch which folded the controls ingeniously back into the dash, and waited. No affronted landowner emerged to drive them away: there was only the forest, the lapping waters and the enveloping dark.

"Good," it sighed. Bel must have caught Owen's sceptical glance out over the little clearing, because it patted his arm. "Relax. I set the canopy on full polarity. No-one from outside can see a thing." Bel grinned, wickedly. "Just as well, given everything I've ever heard about this district. As I don't reckon I could pass you off as my brother, and neither of us has hooves, catching us having sex might really shock the locals."

Owen exhaled. "Great. I ask you to find us a quiet spot for a shag, and you choose Brecon-on-Barrayar." A thought struck him. "I hope the locks on this thing are as good as the polarity's cracked up to be. To begin with, _coitus interruptus_ is against my religion and that goes for double if it's inbred cannibals doing the interrupting. Christ, I hate the countryside."

Bel turned towards him. Its voice was low, husky; lips full and inviting. "I'm glad to hear you've got religious scruples. I'd hate to think you were planning to pull out at the last minute."

Owen raised his eyebrows. "Pull out? Me? Nah." He paused. "Even if I am feeling a bit like the lesbian girl of Khartoum at the moment."

Bel let that one slide off it. It fastened its lips over Owen's, kissing him first with deliberation, then with a deep, drowning, passionate intensity that woke a frantic response within him that left no room for words.

The warm weight of the herm's body was on top of him, thudding heart against his chest, their erections pressing hard against each other, a confusion of hands feeling and stroking and fumbling, the two of them locked in the same passionate tangle of intense need they had felt on the balcony, except this time there were no bright lights, no prowling security, only the tiny, vulnerable bubble of life that was the light-flyer's cabin, screaming defiance into a vast, dark and hostile wilderness.

"I - want," Owen gasped, his fingers gone suddenly clumsy, fumbling at stubborn clasps, searching for fastenings, sheer need focussing all his perceptions to a single urgent pinpoint.

"What -? Tell me - please - "

"To see you. All of you." His voice was raw with frustration. "How does this fucking ridiculous thing come off, anyway?"

Bel's eyes flashed with something that might have been mischief, might have been triumph. It broke away, momentarily, and with a deft wriggling movement of its shoulders the gown was a heap of discarded blue fabric on the cabin floor.

_So that's what happens when you switch the anti-grav off._

The delicate pallor of Bel's skin had struck him even while Petrova Comienski had been carrying out her examination. Now, illuminated only by the dimmed light of the light-flyer compartment, it looked downright translucent.

_The skin of someone who lives between the stars, but avoids the rays of any single sun._

"Christ! Anyone ever tell you how downright fucking gorgeous you are, darlin'?"

By contrast against that skin those cream silk knickers - Bel's only clothing - looked almost dark. Owen slid a hand between tensely muscular thighs, sliding his hand up and down Bel's cock, stroking its hardness through the thin fabric. It twitched and leapt under his exploring fingers, stoking the fiery need that throbbed in his own groin.

_Now - now - now._

Bel's eyes widened. It looked, for a moment, unexpectedly vulnerable. It arched its hips a little as if to give a hint.

"More - oh, God, please - more. Please. But - um - further back."

Owen caught his breath. _Oh. Now I see._

The thudding of his heart was deafening. Someone seemed to have turned off the oxygen to the light-flyer compartment, too. It was enormously difficult to breathe. The fine silk of the knickers behind Bel's balls was sodden; his exploring fingers sliding beneath the fabric parted labia slippery-slick with desire. Bel stiffened against him as his fingers - grown suddenly assertive - plunged two knuckles deep or more into its cunt; repeated that, in and out, the heel of his palm rubbing rhythmically against its engorged clit.

Bel gasped, writhing against him, sharp teeth biting at his neck and shoulder. He withdrew his hand, raised his fingers to his nostrils and inhaled, deeply.

"You little beauty!"

He pulled off those idiotic knickers, tossed them aside, letting them lie where they fell. Bel fell back across the light-flyer seats, pupils so distended that the blue eyes looked almost black, limbs tumbled every which way, breasts thrusting up towards him, cock erect, blatantly assertive.

"Oh God. Just fuck me now, will you? How many times do I have to ask?"

Owen gulped; his voice nakedly sincere. "Darlin', any more of this and I'll be coming in my pants. Help me get rid of these clothes, will you?"

He'd chucked his formal tunic-top in the back of the light-flyer already; now Bel grasped his fine white shirt, ripping it over his head with a fine disregard for buttons or seams. He wriggled out of trousers and boxers, leaving him naked against Bel's body, little electric shocks triggering along all his nerve endings as skin brushed against skin. His lips moved down the herm's body. Blessing, for once, his lack of height he slid down all the way, so he was kneeling on the cramped floor of the light-flyer, his back pressed against the dash. Bel, realising what he was at, twisted that supple body, raising those long legs, resting its feet against the windscreen. Spread its legs for him.

His tongue flickered out, caressing the head of Bel's cock; evoking more gasps as he flicked repeatedly, butterfly-light, along the infinitely sensitive vein at the back before he moved his lips down the shaft, over the balls, down and back, back where he ought to be. Back where he knew what to do.

"Oh - yes!" Bel's voice was more of a yelp than anything else; muscles trembled in the strong thighs pressing close to each side of his head. Ignoring the increasingly assertive demands of his own cock he intensified the pressure, let his tongue dance delicately around Bel's clit, dipped in and out in a flickering, teasing rhythm; until the herm in one intense, unexpected gasp came.

It was like nothing Owen had ever experienced before in his life.

Ever since he'd been fourteen, discovering sex for the first time, women had always seemed alien beings. Each individual woman remained alien - infinitely fascinating - until the moment he first had her; defined her, encompassed her.

Watched her turn into someone giggling about him with her mates, moaning about commitment, bitching when he didn't phone, mooning idly - pointedly - past jewellers' windows, becoming careless with the Pill.

When they stopped being alien, he stopped being interested. They had never understood that.

This - this was something else. This possessed depths of alien he'd never dreamt of. And he was quite sure he would never reach the bottom of them. And he certainly never wanted to.

He caught Bel in his arms just as the herm turned completely over, forced him back against the light-flyer seats, moved to straddle him; back arched above him, hands on his shoulders, braced in support, head thrown back, suspicion of an Adam's apple outlined in the silhouette of its throat against the canopy of the light-flyer -

"Oh, fuck, darlin', just do it!"

One sure hand caught his cock, guided it inside that tight, slippery heaven. The rhythm of his thrusts was so natural it was almost as if it had been hard-wired into him. His teeth caught at the pale skin of Bel's neck as the pace speeded up - frantic hands slid over sweat-lubricated back and clutched at buttocks, kneaded into firm flesh - and the pace picked up as his need became more intense, Bel above him was responding to that, but Christ, where in the fucking Galaxy had the herm got that idea from -? And who could have ever imagined it would have felt like that -?

"Oh, yes - oh yes - oh fuck yes -!"

He came in a shuddering explosion of release and collapsed against Bel's chest. The herm - almost equally spent - curled around him, pulled the evening dress over them by way of covering, hit some command on the dash which started to breathe warm air out into the light-flyer compartment. As Owen drifted off into sleep Bel was stroking his hair, muttering gentle, affectionate noises into his ear.

When he was able to think about moving again - he started with his left eyelid, rather than risk straining anything more important - there was already a lightening in the sky on one side of the canopy.

"Dawn's coming." The herm sounded like a soldier making a sit-rep to its superior officer. Assuming there was an army anywhere in the world in which sit-reps were delivered by someone with a leg slung casually round one's waist, and a morning glory of epic proportions pressed encouragingly against one's kidneys.

_Of course, assuming "Captain Jack Harkness" didn't invent his rank, he has to be strong evidence in himself that somewhere in the space-time continuum such an army undoubtedly exists. Somewhere._

Owen turned in Bel's arms. Lips found lips with delicious, unhurried languor. He broke out of the kiss to murmur, "How long before we have to be back at the hospital?"

"I can get us there within an hour and a half. A bit less if I redline the drive. And the Countess told us to be out of there by midday. It gives us a couple of hours. Depending on how much you need to do once we're back there."

Owen thought - his hands were drifting over Bel's body as he did so, which didn't make coherent thought that much easier. But there was that one bit of unfinished business -

He made up his mind.

"Redline the drive. Get us back as soon as possible."

Bel's expression was almost a pout. "I have to?"

Owen grinned, the certainty ringing in his blood that he had done the right thing. "Forgotten my quarters, darlin'? Be a crying shame to waste that bed."

He glanced down at the light-flyer compartment. Clothes were scattered everywhere, few of them in any decent state of repair. A thought struck him.

"Oh, and sweetheart?"

Bel raised its eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Just for me - you said the canopy was on full polarity, didn't you? That means you don't actually have to put your dress back on, do you?"

It took a fraction of a second. Then, wearing only an infinitely evil grin, the herm slid behind the light-flyer controls.

"Yours to command. Director. But let's hope the municipal guard don't chose to pull us in on spec. But otherwise - yes."

They took off into the grey dawn.


	22. Chapter 22

"No, Administrator Vorsoisson. Come right in."

As soon as Vorsoisson - the sap - crossed the threshold Owen hit the controls in the armrest of the chair. The door hissed locked behind him. Vorsoisson, looking affronted but not worried - as he fucking well ought to be - advanced across the carpeted acres of his office. Silently, Owen gestured towards the upright chair he'd placed ready on the other side of his desk and Vorsoisson sat down.

"Right," Owen said. "There are some security issues I need to discuss with you. And I've not got much time to waste. Suppose we start at the very beginning. Suppose you try to explain to me, in words on one syllable, Vorsoisson, exactly how you interpret the words 'confidential patient database.' " He half-rose, leaning across the desk, supporting himself on his spread hands. He was barely six inches from Vorsoisson's face. "Because it fucking well doesn't seem to bear any resemblance to any normal meaning that applies anywhere else in the Galaxy."

Vorsoisson recoiled a little; Owen's smile became more blood-thirsty.

"I've been looking at the authorisations you've signed over the five months you've been in this post. What's more, I've cross-referred them to the security records - ID logs, holo-records, even, god help me, to your timesheets. Aiming for the Pulitzer Prize for fiction for those, were you, Vorsoisson?"

That, clearly, was one obsolete cultural reference too far. Vorsoisson gulped. "I -ah - um -"

"Don't bother answering that one," Owen snapped. "I'm more interested in the big question."

He exhaled. "That being: would you care to tell me, Vorsoisson, how in the name of all the bleeding laws of physics in the Universe you seem to do a harder day's work the times you aren't in the office than you can ever be arsed to manage when you are?"

Vorsoisson opened his mouth in what was a quite competent impersonation of a goldfish. Before any sound could emerge, however, there came a noise from behind Owen's back. Owen half-turned.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Bel, not looking noticeably apologetic, let the door to Owen's private quarters fall closed behind it. "I hadn't realised you were busy." Bel was fresh from the bath, its short brown curls damp, a towel slung sarong style around its hips. It hadn't bothered with any other covering.

Vorsoisson turned a nasty shade of puce, and made as if to get up from his chair. Owen, an unholy glee starting to rise within him, gestured him back.

"No, Administrator. You - or that invisible pixie you seem to have following you around, doing your work for you - managed something quite special in Captain Thorne's case. A transfer to a trauma clinic that not only has no record of its existence anywhere in the Barrayaran Empire, but - in a sick joke which ought to have alerted suspicion in a bacterial culture - happened to be named after one of the most notorious serial killers, sex criminals and paedophiles in recorded history. Any excuse you can find for that one concerns Captain Thorne even more than it concerns me. So don't even think of leaving on its account."

Bel strolled across to perch on the armrest of Owen's chair, brushing a brief, light kiss over his cheek as it did so and regarding Vorsoisson with alert interest.

Vorsoisson gaped. "It?"

"Betan hermaphrodite," Bel supplemented helpfully. There was a pause, presumably while Vorsoisson's floundering brain tried to process the information. Then the penny dropped. His gaze flicked from Bel's breasts to the line of its throat and jaw before it finally locked with horrid fascination on Bel's towel.

"You - what - that - you can't be serious!" he spluttered.

Owen coughed, repressively, and made his voice cool. "Really, Vorsoisson, if you are going to progress in hospital administration you simply can't afford to get behind on essential technical reading. Betan hermaphrodites have been established in the galaxy for a good two hundred and fifty years. I'd have expected even you to have noticed."

Bel, curse its black heart, emitted a brief cackle which it turned - too belatedly to be diplomatic - into a cough.

Vorsoisson looked as though he was suppressing a bilious attack. "Galactic corruption! To go out and deliberately create a race of mutants."

Owen could feel Bel tense beside him. He slid his arm round its shoulders in what was intended to be a reassuring cuddle but which - as the feel of Bel's smoothly muscled skin against his own recent memories - turned into something rather more. It was an effort to drag his attention back to the current interview, and Vorsoisson was clearly aware of that; he thought, for a moment, that the man was going to be physically sick.

He infused his voice with a savage contempt. "Tell me, Vorsoisson, with a mind that narrow don't you find the blood has difficulty squeezing its way around? If I were you I'd book yourself in for a check-up, see if the anoxia's caused permanent neural damage. That might go a long way towards explaining your recent idiocies."

Vorsoisson made a blind, bull-like lunge towards him. Owen shoved the swivel chair back, out of the range of his flailing fists at the same time as Bel broke out of his grasp, vaulted the desk and planted both feet in Vorsoisson's chest in a flying karate kick which sent the administrator over backwards. Following up its advantage, it pinned him to the carpet with an accurately placed knee on each arm, and frisked him all over with brutal efficiency.

The whole incident could have taken less than five seconds. Owen felt almost dizzy. There was a pool of white fabric at his feet. He picked it up and moved round to the front of the desk, extending it to Bel.

"You lost your towel, darlin'," he said. Bel took it with a nonchalance which suggested that nude unarmed combat was all in a day's work to it. Perhaps it was. It had certainly been effective enough. Modesty Blaise had nothing on it. Vorsoisson seemed almost catatonic, though as Bel's thumbs were resting casually in the vicinity of his carotid artery there might be additional explanations for that.

Owen made his tone even more coruscating. "You should have listened a bit more closely, Vorsoisson. I said Captain Thorne. If you could have dragged your mind away from sex for a second or so, it might have occurred to you that trying conclusions with a career soldier wasn't the brightest move you could make."

"I did say I was retired," Bel sighed.

Owen grinned across at Bel. "Well, you're not an OAP yet. And three months is hardly long enough for you to have - um - lost your edge." He turned his head; his voice markedly cooler. "Unlike nine years, it seems, Lieutenant Vorsoisson."

He tapped the print-out in front of him meaningfully. He'd taken the precaution of downloading Vorsoisson's personnel file before starting this interview and had found much of interest.

Vorsoisson uttered a snort which was more like a gasp; Bel, presumably, wasn't being any too forgiving with his windpipe. "As if I'm supposed to pay attention to a tin-pot rank self-assumed by a mutie pervert!"

Owen made his voice very dry. "Countess Vorkosigan paid attention."

"And I can assure you," Bel added brightly while Vorsoisson was still digesting that one, "that sitting on top of you is strictly in the line of duty. I'm certainly not enough of a pervert to get any pleasure out of it."

With an enormous effort Vorsoisson thrust himself up on his elbows, dislodging Bel momentarily. "I don't have to stand for this."

Owen gestured to Bel. _Let him get up._

"Stand, sit, do what you bleeding well like. But it's my hospital, and while you're in it you'll listen to me when I tell you to."

Bel, bless it, had rolled right out of Vorsoisson's line of vision, taking its distracting presence out of the equation for the moment. Vorsoisson got to his feet and stood, breathing heavily, his hands spread palm-flat on Owen's desk.

"I don't have to put up with being insulted by some jumped-up galactic clown and his tame mutant catamite -"

Owen made his voice very cool. "Do I take it, then, that you're offering your resignation?"

Things hung in the balance for a fraction of a second. Then, very slowly, Vorsoisson nodded. "Yes," he breathed. "I owe it to my honour as Vor. Something you couldn't possibly be expected to understand."

Owen smiled, and tapped a code into the comconsole. "Evidently not. Palm print here, please. And - yes - here. And there. Good." Vorsoisson was still looking dazed. Owen tapped another command. "Kirov? That you? Good man. Administrator Vorsoisson has just tendered his resignation. Given the - ah - sensitivity of the data he's had access to, can I have one of your chaps up here to give him a hand with - ah - clearing his desk, making sure nothing from the hospital inadvertently gets mixed up with his personal stuff, seeing him off the premises- you know the drill. Yes; now would be excellent."

He cut the connection. "Well, Administrator Vorsoisson. I suggest you start your packing. It's been - interesting - working with you. No, given the strength of your moral position I won't offend you by offering to shake hands. Goodbye."

He activated the door controls, and gestured. Vorsoisson - his walk a defeated shamble - retreated from the office. Owen and Bel were alone together.

"Well." The herm was looking amused. "That was - quick. And effective. Though I'm surprised you didn't just sack him."

Owen raised his eyebrows. "What, and have it rescinded once whoever - ImpSec, you said? - confirm I'd no bleeding right to be here in the first place?"

Bel widened its eyes. It nodded with a grave respect. Owen continued, "No; this way he gets his arse out of my hospital and stays out. And if they find enough to nail him for his part in the scam - well, presumably ImpSec know where he lives. Though I think, myself, he was simply too thick to know what was going on."

The herm nodded, and looked at the chrono on the corner of the desk. "Anyway. That still leaves us an hour or so." It paused. "Ever had a fantasy where you were sitting back in your big leather swivel chair, behind your big, exotic wood desk and someone comes in, pushes you back in your chair, and gives you a blow-job where you're sitting?"

Owen made his voice sound deliberately bored. "Yeah; been there, done that, got the T-shirt." He paused. "Ever had a fantasy where you come into someone's office, pull him out of that big fuck-off swivel chair, bend him over his big, exotic leather-tooled desk, pull down his trousers and fuck the life out of him?"

Something changed in Bel's face. Owen hoped it couldn't see that his hands were, beneath the level of the desk, desperately clenched into fists in order to stop the trembling. Nevertheless - he'd been brought up proper, him. And there had been those moments in the light-flyer.

_A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do._

"So, darlin'?" He drawled out the words. "I said I wasn't - what was the word? Monosexual. Well, sweetheart. You've got an hour to prove me wrong. Go for it."


	23. Chapter 23

Owen woke, lapped in the warm after-glow of orgasm. The familiar sounds and smells of the Hub were all about him; water dripping down the pipes, the odd squawk from high above their heads, the faint whiff of preservative from the mortuary.

_Sodding appalling class of office accommodation they expect us to put up with. That's the public sector for you. No respect for the staff. I ought to write a stiff email to HR. Get the Union onto it._

He smiled and yawned.

"So I see you've regained consciousness, then."

Jack's voice was amused, unconcerned. Owen might, another time, have been inclined to kick up a fuss about that - after all, it was Jack's fault he'd been in the predicament in the first place - but right this minute he rather thought he wouldn't bother. He snuggled back under the duvet and felt the camp-bed creak beneath him. No need to open his eyes just yet. With eyes shut he could still pretend the warm flat accent was Bel's. Albeit, given the difference in pitch, Bel suffering the backlash of a chesty cold. Or after having smoked a packet of Marlboro's while drinking straight Islay malts all evening, possibly.

_But close enough for Government work._

He made his voice indifferent, casual.

"Out long, was I?"

"'Bout eight hours. Give or take. We've been taking it in turns to monitor your vital signs." The thread of humour in the warm, flat tones deepened. "Until it became almost embarrassingly apparent that your vital signs are in excellent order. So I sent the guys out for Chinese."

There was a pause; the voice became a tad more serious.

"As your boss, perhaps this is a good time for the official reminder that, once you've gotten totally off your tits, deciding go play with one of Tosh's unidentified alien artefacts makes you a prime candidate for a Darwin award. Hell, Owen. Do you want free storage for your personal effects for the rest of the millennium?"

That was enough to snap his eyes wide open, all right.

"I fucking like that! You gave me that cocktail in the first place!"

Jack shrugged. "How come I'm expected to know you're allergic to absinthe?"

"That abortion of a concoction was based on absinthe?"

Jack looked faintly shifty. "Well, mostly absinthe."

Owen loaded his voice with sarcasm. "Ah. Mostly absinthe. So that's all right then."

Predictably, Jack shifted back onto the attack. "Anyway. Whatever was going on in your bloodstream, as a senior Torchwood operative your commonsense should still have kicked in before you picked that thing up and started twiddling. No-one knew what it did: it could have been a weapon or a space/time matter transporter -"

"You mean it wasn't?"

Jack looked - for him - almost apologetic.

"Er, no. Home entertainment device, actually." He continued, rather rapidly, before Owen could protest. "Tosh got a line on it eventually. To be fair, I'd have recognised it a bit earlier, but that model got dropped in favour a competing format after a couple of years -"

Owen sat up straight; he was breathing hard. He could hear the edge of hysteria in his own voice, but couldn't stop it. Nor, some part of his mind told him, did he particularly want to.

"So essentially you're saying I was kiboshed by some bleeding alien Betamax?" He reached blindly out for the device: Jack intercepted his wandering hand and caught it, tight. This time there was a level of something else in Jack's tone. Something - speculative. Something - and this was the part that really dropped the salt onto the raw wound - something almost compassionate.

"Of course, there's no way of telling what it was you accessed. Index files were all corrupt. Could have been anything. History, fiction, fantasy." He paused. "Or just good old-fashioned porn."

"Got a ticky-box for 'all of the above', have you?" Owen snarled.

He swung round on the camp-bed, wrenching his hand from Jack's grasp, putting his feet to the floor with such violence the camp-bed almost up-ended. He was standing before a thought struck him. He turned, looking down at Jack, who hadn't moved from the stool he'd been sitting on. There were, after all, questions that the boss might, just might, be able to answer. And certainly no-one else in Cardiff was likely to be able to.

"Ever come across a hermaphrodite?"

Jack raised his eyebrows, unfazed. "Natural or cosmy?"

Owen's face must have shown his bewilderment. Jack sounded like someone explaining the bleeding obvious to a not-over-bright child.

"Were they born that way or did they opt in?"

Owen gulped. "You can? Er, people do?"

"Sure. Happens all the time." Jack's face creased in a manic grin. "One place I heard of, a long ti- " He sneezed, unexpectedly. "A long way away from here, they'd got the full procedure down to less than an hour. No anaesthetic needed. 'Bout as much pain as mild sunburn. Less hassle than getting a tattoo."

Owen's hand stole to the base of his spine, touching the spot on which from the age of seventeen until less than eight months ago he'd sworn he'd had a Tantric mantra emblazoned in an elegant blue circle. Until Suzie, almost choking on her giggles, had chosen to disabuse him of that particular notion.

_Vindaloo with extra poppadums. Special. For the fuckwit ferengi._

He'd avoided having sex with anyone who might know Urdu ever since.

"Of course," Jack said, "It made high school kinda interesting there."

"Um - ah - ack?"

"Well, you know. You go out with a few guys from your class - have a few beers, do tabs, whatever. Fetch up on the Strip. Everyone egging everyone else on to show just how far they're prepared to go. No-one in those places cares, long as your credit chit passes and your retina scan shows you're over age. All good clean fun. Until you wake up next morning thinking, 'Shit! I couldn't really have -' And then reach your hand down."

That grin, Owen decided abruptly, didn't actually have any business being attached to anything sane. And he wouldn't pledge his medical reputation it currently was, either.

"Of course," Jack added thoughtfully, "provided you could cope with the PMS it made for amazing sex." His grin, implausibly, got even more feral. "Or so they tell me."

Owen thought about responding to that one. And then thought about not responding. And then thought that thinking about responding needed more energy than he thought he had at this precise moment. Or was he, perhaps, over-thinking things?

Jack got up from the stool next to the camp bed. "Well, if you want to get your clothes on we could still catch them before they got past the crispy duck."

Owen shook his head. "You go on. If you like. Me, reckon I could do with an early night."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Early night? As in: hot bath - cocoa - hot-water bottle - lose yourself in a good book, maybe?"

Owen looked straight back at him. "Got any better ideas?"

There was a pause. It felt like eternity. Jack blinked first.

"OK. Well. See you in the morning."

Outside the rain was sluicing down buckets in the chill, orange-black gleaming of the Cardiff night. The wind howled, lifting up waves white over the edge of the waterfront.

Owen leaned head down into the storm, his fingers caressing the warm bulk of the alien artefact as he headed for home and bed.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on my own website; downloadable version available [ here ](http://ajhall.shoesforindustry.net/ebooks/2/ajhall_cant_trace_time/)
> 
> For news of other fics follow @ajhall_fics on Twitter
> 
> For anyone familiar with Torchwood, the events of this story have to take place after Series One, Episode 10, and before Series Two, Episode 6.


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